


a fair price to pay

by duustbunny



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Angst, Blood Magic, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Castiel is Hard to Sell, Castiel's Grace, Coercion, Collars, Consent Issues, Dubious Consent, M/M, Misunderstandings, Netflix and Chill, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Pining, Sexual Coercion, Sharing Clothes, Sharing a Bed, Slave Castiel, Slow Build, Slow Build Castiel/Dean Winchester, Slow Burn, Wing Kink, behavioral issues, canon quotes sprinkled in there because that’s my new kink, oh my god they were roommates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2019-01-23
Packaged: 2019-06-09 23:57:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 57,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15279069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duustbunny/pseuds/duustbunny
Summary: Dean makes the mistake of accepting a rebellious angel slave named Castiel as payment for a job. Selling him is proving harder than he was led to believe.“What did you expect when you got us into this, Dean? That we’d just post ‘angel slave for sale’ on Craigslist and ship him out by FedEx?”





	1. Chapter 1

The house is dark and unfamiliar, but there is enough moonlight coming in from the floor-to-ceiling windows that he doesn’t need a flashlight to search through the drawers, under the cushions, inside the cupboards, anywhere there could be money or jewels or anything else of value that he could quickly sell. So far he has only managed to get his hands on a watch that looks like it’s probably not worth anything anyway and an ancient-looking soup ladle with golden etchings on it that could _maybe_ be gilded with actual gold. The place is pretty bare.

The bright dichroic lamps on the ceiling fixtures switch on and his arm flies up to cover his eyes, head turned away.

“Stop right there!” a woman’s voice shouts from the other end of the room. “I’m armed!”

But his hand is already pulling out his gun from his jacket and, before he can stop himself, muscle memory has him pointing it at the woman. When his pupils adjust, he notices she’s holding a baseball bat.

“Drop it,” he says.

“Dean?”

“Drop it, Talbot.”

She bends her knees and sets the bat on the floor, kicking it out of reach. “I already called the police. You won’t get away with this.” 

“The police,” Dean scoffs. “Like you would lead them straight into your home.”

“My business is completely legal.”

“I’m sure it’ll all hold up under trial.”

She purses her lips, refusing to concede his point out loud. “What do you want?”

“My money.”

“What money?”

Dean cocks his gun and lets the click answer for him.

“I _have_ found a new buyer,” she hurries to say.

“You said the same thing two weeks ago and I haven’t seen a single dime yet.”

“She’s having... difficulties transferring the money. These things are delicate, Dean. There are reputations and even lives at stake. You know how it is.”

Dean advances until his gun touches Talbot’s nightgown-covered collarbone. “I’ll tell you how it is. My brother and I worked our asses off to create that spell and we _will_ get paid for it. I’m not leaving this house without our money.” 

“Then make yourself comfortable, love, because you’ll be staying till Friday. At least.” Her hand inches slowly up and curls around the barrel of Dean’s gun. “I don’t have a spare bed, but you’re welcome to share mine.”

Dean slides the weapon out of her fingers and repositions it against her cheekbone, barely brushing the skin. “No, thanks.” 

“Then try turning the place upside down and shaking it, see if any money falls out.”

“You expect me to believe you don’t have anything of value in here?”

“I didn’t say that.” She smiles and it’s enticing, full of promises. “I’m a businesswoman, Dean.”

“In the loosest definition of the word.”

“I exchange goods for money. Sometimes I have the goods, sometimes I have the money.”

“And you’d better have my money right now.”

“I have the equivalent in merchandise.”

Dean shakes his head. “Nuh-uh. Not interested. The deal was cash.” 

“I understand. And I really want to honor our agreement--”

“Hah!”

“--even though my previous contact has failed to come through within the agreed timeframe, something completely beyond my control. I like you, Dean,” she says, pushing the barrel of the gun away from her face, “and I want keep doing business with you.”

“You mean scamming me.”

“You delivered, and it’s only fair that I do the same, in whatever capacity I can. So this time—and only as an exception, mind you—I’m willing to give you something extremely valuable as compensation for your troubles. An item that far exceeds the amount we previously agreed on due to its rarity and high demand in the market.”

Dean’s upper lip curls in distaste. “You think I’m stupid?”

“On the contrary. If I did, I wouldn’t be offering you this deal.” 

“Oh, yeah. A deal in which you supposedly pay me more than what we actually agreed. Nothing suspicious about that.”

“I take good care of my suppliers as well as my clients. You’ve provided me an excellent spell and I would like to buy many more from you in the future. You and your brother have quite the reputation for your spell-making skills.” She frowns in mock confusion. “Although I’ve heard that your main source of income comes from... pest control?”

“We hunt monsters. But we don’t get paid for it.”

“Charity work. How sweet.”

“Don’t change the subject. I gave you the spell and you didn’t pay me. I don’t think that qualifies as taking good care of your suppliers, does it?” 

“I can’t give you the money right now, no matter how much I want to. Which is why I’m forced to give away something much more valuable, or else you won’t accept it.”

“I won’t accept it either way.”

She smiles in a way she probably means to be conspiratorial. “You haven’t heard what I have to offer, yet.”

“Doesn’t matter. Not interested.”

“Oh, but you will be, Dean. Because what I have to offer is--” and here she pauses for effect, but the only effect is Dean rolling his eyes “-- _a slave._ ”

“Oh, come on!” Dean’s grip tightens around his gun, but he doesn’t raise it. She’s not even trying. A slave, really?

“Premium product,” she says, like that changes anything. 

“I don’t need a slave.” 

“You will want this one, trust me.”

“Trust you!”

“Look, even if you decide you don’t want to keep it for yourself, you will be able to sell it in no time. Buyers will be lining outside your door, _begging_ to pay you any price you name.”

“Everyone knows slaves aren’t that valuable. Or easy to sell, these days. They’re a dying trend or whatever you wanna call it. The world changes. Right now, trying to sell a slave is more trouble than it’s worth.”

“This one is worth it, Dean.”

“Because it’s the best slave ever, right?”

“Because it’s an angel.”

Dean’s next objection dies in his throat. 

Bela lets her smile stretch wider. “I can see I’ve got your attention, now.”

Which, yeah, okay, she does. Can he be blamed? He’s heard of angels before, of course. Every hunter has. But angels are impossible to catch and even harder to contain. How could this woman possibly have one imprisoned? 

“I know,” she says, as if his thoughts are written all over his face. “But this isn’t the first angel to be captured, Dean. The slave market might be cooling down at the moment, but angels are luxury items and there is always new technology being developed for this kind of niche. I’ve acquired this one with a state-of-the-art device. Infallible. Worth half as much as the angel itself, actually.”

If she were telling the truth, Dean would be in for the deal of his life. Even he, knowing almost nothing about slaves and even less about angels, knows that an angel slave is extremely rare and would obviously sell for a shit-ton of money. There’s probably a high demand and definitely a very limited supply. But... “Sounds a little too good to be true, doesn’t it?”

“Don’t tell me twice, love. I’m starting to think I have a soft spot for you.” She fakes an exaggerated shudder. “We’d better do this quickly before I have any second thoughts, then. How about I show you the goods, and then you make up your mind?” 

“You have the angel _here_?”

“A product like that, I have to keep close, don’t you agree?”

Dean hesitates. This is probably the worst idea he’s had in at least a month, but he’s never seen an angel in the flesh before and the curiosity is killing him. It might very well be his only opportunity to ever catch a glimpse of one. He doesn’t have to agree to anything else. 

Bela has little patience. “Look, if you’re not convinced, I’ll get you the money we originally agreed on. I don’t want you to feel like this is your only option. I mean, it is the quickest, but I can get you the cash in a couple of weeks if you’d rather--”

“A couple of weeks? No. Absolutely not.”

“Then follow me.” She turns to leave and Dean has no choice but to go after her.

She opens a door and they descend the stairs behind it into what Dean assumes must be the basement. It’s rather large, possibly larger than the entire area of the house itself, and mostly bare except for the shelves that line the walls, which hold containers of various sizes. Dean keeps clear of them, just in case. Everything that Bela Talbot trades is dangerous and terrifying. 

She stops in front of another, thinner door and unhooks a chain from the wall, wrapping it around her hand. “Wait here.”

“For you to run away?”

“And leave you alone in my house?” She turns the handle and opens the door. It’s unlocked.

Dean lets her go in. The door opens into a small hallway and faces a wall, so Dean can’t see the room itself, but the sound of her heels echo around him so he knows she’s still in there. There’s a metallic rattling for a moment, and then her steps are approaching again. Dean moves away from the door; he’s not sure what to expect, either from her or from the angel. Bela comes out first, chain held loosely in one hand, no tension to it whatsoever. On the other end of it, a few steps behind her, is a man.

Dean stares. He’s dressed in only a pair of dress pants, barefoot and shirtless. His hair is unkempt, but otherwise he looks spotlessly clean. His head is tipped down, chin partially hiding a thick, metallic collar around his neck that the chain is hooked to so it can serve as a leash, but his eyes are looking straight at Dean. They seem impossibly blue in the dark, grey basement, and they gleam with barely restrained anger.

“Relax, Dean,” Bela says. “The collar keeps it controlled. You have nothing to fear.”

“Controlled?” 

“Powerless. Grounded and compliant.”

“He looks human,” Dean blurts out. It’s true. For all he knows, Bela could be tricking him into accepting a regular slave that is barely worth half as much as the spell. 

She reaches out toward the angel, completely unafraid, and touches the collar with one finger. The section of metal beneath her digit lights up at the contact, glowing blue and bright. Dean sees the angel flinch and next thing he knows two massive _things_ have appeared. Not exactly wing-shaped and with only a few discolored feathers clinging to the exposed skin, they seem to be attached to the angel’s back, taking up the entire width and height of the room even though they aren’t splayed to their full span – the room’s not large enough for that. 

“Feel free to carry out any inspections you consider necessary,” Bela says. 

Dean knows better than to trust Bela’s assurances of safety, but he still finds himself gravitating toward the creature in front of him. His hand reaches out toward one of the wings, but before they can make contact, the appendage draws back. 

Bela yanks on the chain and the angel jerks forward. Dean jumps back. 

“It’s a bit shy around strangers,” Bela says, a false apology in her tone. 

“The, uh, wings... they don’t look so good, do they?”

“You’ve never seen angel wings before, have you?”

Dean shrugs and turns to look at her. She’s smirking.

“It’s got a clean bill of health, like all angels do. Disease free. You won’t catch anything.”

“Right.” Disease is the last thing on his mind right now.

“The papers are upstairs. Shall we?” 

Dean’s first reaction is to say no, no way, what makes her think he’ll agree to this? But he looks back at the creature in front of him, at the huge wings sprouting from his back that take Dean’s breath away despite their sickly appearance, and gets the feeling that this might actually be the deal of his life for real. He may not know anything about slave trading, but he knows angel slaves are rare enough that demand must significantly surpass supply, and that means a quick sale and more money than he could ever dream of even if he were to keep his nose to the spell-making grindstone for years. Really, he would be very dumb to turn down such a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. 

But the cynic in him wants insurance. 

“If I can’t sell him in two days, I bring him back and you give me my money. All of it. Cash.” 

“That’s fair,” she says, and it does ring an alarm in Dean’s head because two days is a very short time —he had purposefully started out with a low number to negotiate up from there— but he tells himself Bela’s quick agreement only means the slave will sell even faster than he originally expected. There’s a market hungry for such exclusive products, and while Dean might not know how to reach it, Sam probably does. Or at least he’ll know how to Google it. 

Bela yanks on the chain again until the angel is standing less than a foot from her. “This is the sigil that enables the transfer,” she explains, pointing at the collar. Dean looks closer and notices the metal is engraved with different symbols, all looking pretty much indistinguishable from one another. “When you imprint your essence on it,” she continues, “the collar recognizes you as the new owner. To transfer it when you sell it, simply touch it--” she does, and the symbol flares up for a moment “--and then the next owner touches it, making the transfer effective.” She steps away and gestures between Dean and the angel. 

Dean reaches out unthinkingly and does as told. The light under his finger is cold but painless, and before he can truly comprehend what is happening, it’s over. 

The slave is his.

“Marvelous,” Bela says, beaming. “Now the legal technicalities, and you can go your merry way. I do need to catch the rest of my beauty sleep.”

They go upstairs and back into the living room, where Bela gets a manila folder from one of the drawers and writes a small ‘X’ on the line where Dean has to sign. Dean takes the pen and adds his signature to a list of about half a dozen names. It’s only a formality. Angels aren’t supposed to exist, so they’re outside the scope of slavery laws. None of this is legal and they both know it.

“Dean, it has been a pleasure making business with you,” Bela says, handing him the folder and ushering him to the door. 

Dean rolls his eyes on principle. “Yeah, yeah.” 

As he steps outside, Bela thrusts the chain into his hand. “Don’t forget your purchase.”

His purchase. His eyes fall to his hand, then move along the chain and up the slave’s neck to finally settle on his eyes. The slave is looking back at him.

Right. He owns somebody now. Actually _owns_ him. An angel. It’s insane. What do people even need an angel slave for?

“I can assure you, love, you will not regret this. Why, tomorrow you’ll probably be calling me to buy another one!”

Bela closes the door and the angel’s face is cast into darkness. There’s no moon, but the sky is clear enough that the stars illuminate his enormous wings, outlining their dim shadow against the porch floor.

“You should put those away,” Dean says. It’s the middle of the night and he’s flashing a supernatural—not to mention extremely expensive—thing around a dark, deserted street. 

The slave crosses his arms in front of his naked chest. “If they are forced to manifest through the... _device_ , they can only be withdrawn in the same manner.” 

Dean is taken aback at the reply, both its derisive tone and the deep, gravelly voice with which it is spoken. “Device?” 

“Collar.” The slave spits the word out like bad milk.

Dean steps closer and reaches out, hand still closed around the chain. The slave flinches a little, but doesn’t move away. Dean watches the symbols etched on the metal; there’s at least seven or eight different ones, but he only recognizes the one meant for transferring. His finger is hovering over one at random when a hand closes around his wrist and moves it toward a different one. The metal lights up at the contact and when Dean looks up, the wings are gone. 

“Thanks,” he tells the slave.

“I would say you’re welcome, but you’re not.”

“Hey, I don’t like this any more than you do.” 

“You don’t know how much I _don’t_ like this.”

Okay, point taken. He starts toward the Impala, parked around the corner, and makes it three steps down the street before the chain is tugged right out of his hand. 

“What, now you’re just gonna stand there?”

“If I please.”

Jesus Christ, he might as well have bought a twelve-year-old. “Listen, I say you come with me, so you come with me, got it?” 

The slave narrows his eyes. Dean runs his hand over his face, rubbing at his eyes. He’s just about ready to knock on Bela’s door and undo the whole damn thing, but when he opens his eyes he’s staring right into the angel’s very blue ones. He’s standing close enough to make it weird. 

“Dude. Personal space.” 

He steps back and, experimentally, starts back toward the car. The slave follows, chain dragging along the sidewalk.

“Pick that thing up, will you? You’ll wake the entire block. Or better yet, just take it off. You clearly don’t need it.”

“I can’t.” 

Dean clicks his tongue. Why is the slave being so difficult? It’s just a hook-and-eye, he doesn’t need a mirror to detach it. Dean has reached the end of his patience, so he just grabs the collar and unhooks the chain himself. As his fingers brush over the slave’s exposed collarbone, he notices the other’s skin is covered in goosebumps. It’s not particularly cold for September, but then again he’s wearing two layers and the angel is wearing none. 

“I’ve a jacket in the trunk,” he says. The slave doesn’t give any indication that he’s interested, so when they reach the car, Dean doesn’t bother taking it out. He tosses the chain and folder into the glove compartment and starts the engine. “Get in.” 

The slave opens the back door.

“This isn’t a taxi service, man. Get in the front.”

It feels kinda weird, having a half-naked man sitting next to him in the car, but the guy looks clean enough that Dean doesn’t worry about Baby’s leather. Much. It gets even weirder when he has to lean over to grab a cassette from the box that somehow ended up on the floor under the seat, but it’s over in a second and soon Def Leppard’s Rock of Ages is playing through the speakers.

“How long is the drive?” 

“’Bout five hours,” Dean answers.

“And will we have to suffer this infernal noise all throughout?” 

Dean is officially pissed now. “Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole. Got it?”

No reply, but it’s better than backtalking. 

“Good. Now stay quiet and let me drive in peace.”

Miraculously, the next two hours pass in total silence save for the music. Dean thanks god for this small mercy because when he gets home he’ll have to tell Sam about the slave he’s bringing in, and there will be no peace after that.


	2. Chapter 2

By the time they arrive, the sun is shining hot enough that the stuffy coolness of the bunker feels like a respite. The angel’s eyes scan the place as he follows Dean down the stairs and into the War Room.

“We inherited it,” Dean explains, self-conscious of his huge home. 

“Dean?!”

Dean turns around to find his brother pointing a gun in their general direction. “Hey, Sammy.”

“I thought you were still sleeping. Who’s the naked guy?”

“First of all, he’s only half naked. I dunno, he came like that. And second, get that thing off my face.”

Sam puts the gun away. Hell, he’s more obedient than the slave. “What’s going on, Dean?” 

Dean shrugs and cuts to the chase. “He’s a slave.”

“ _What?_ Dean--”

“Save it, Sam. It’s only temporary.” 

“I can’t believe you bought a slave--”

“I didn’t.”

“--an actual, enslaved _person_ \--”

“He’s not a person.”

“He is, Dean! He’s not a thing!”

“He’s an angel.”

Sam’s mouth clicks shut. He looks at the slave and Dean can see his entire body tense up.

“Don’t worry, the collar keeps him powerless,” Dean assures him, parroting Bela’s words. He doesn’t even know what they mean. 

Sam’s head turns to him, but his eyes take a moment longer to peel away from the slave. “Dean...”

“Are you gonna help me or not, Sam?”

“Help you? Even leaving aside the obvious moral issues and the exorbitant cost, what did you buy a slave-- an _angel_ slave for?”

“To mine for Sankara stones,” Dean says, rolling his eyes. “I told you, Sam, I didn’t buy him. Bela Talbot gave him to me as payment for the spell.”

“Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack.”

“I thought she was going to pay us money.”

“Yeah, well, so did I.” He peels off his flannel, the weight of an entire sleepless night finally dropping on him. “But I got this instead, and now I need your help selling him. You know we can do it fast and get a lot of money, more money than the spell is worth, even. And you can probably figure out how to go about it safely. Anonymously. I mean, I’m guessing we can’t just auction him off on eBay, right?” 

Sam sighs. He looks unconvinced, but it’s not like they’ve got any alternatives now. “I’ll look into it.”

“Thanks.” 

“What’s his name?” 

Dean is lost for a moment until Sam gestures toward the slave. Oh. He tries to come up with a way to avoid admitting he didn’t think to ask this basic question, but it takes him long enough that Sam turns to the angel instead. 

“What’s your name?” It looks like it takes him actual effort to speak to the guy. Dean figures he’s got some kind of angel phobia or kink or something. Sam’s weird like that.

There’s no reply.

“Hey, my brother asked you a question. Answer him.”

The slave’s face pinches like he’s sucking on a lemon. “Castiel.”

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Dean drops his flannel on a chair and goes to the kitchen. Sam’s laptop is on the table, colorful lines dancing on the screen. “You eat yet, Sam?” 

Sam comes in behind him and sits in front of the computer. “Yeah. There’s some coffee left. And toast.” He’s already typing.

Dean frowns at the cold toast peeking out from the toaster. It’s dark enough that he can’t re-toast it without turning it into actual coal. He pours two mugs of coffee and microwaves them. “Castiel! Come in here!” 

The slave does. Maybe he’s finally getting over his tantrum. 

Dean sets the toast on a plate and hands it to him. “Eat.”

Castiel picks it up and eats it mechanically, chewing each bite exactly five times before swallowing. His face reflects no opinion on the cold, half-burnt bread. The microwave pings and Dean gets the mugs, placing one on the table and drinking his own while standing against the counter. The one on the table remains untouched. 

Once he’s downed the entire mug, Dean feels more like himself again. Castiel has set his empty plate on the table and is now just staring at Dean like he’s got nothing better to do. 

“I could use a shower,” Dean announces. He looks the slave up and down. “You too, I’m guessing. And a t-shirt.” 

Castiel doesn’t say anything, but Dean wasn’t asking, anyway. 

“Follow me.” He leads him down the hall like a mother duck with her little duckling in tow. It’s ridiculous. Dean is not sure he can stand two full days of this. “Wait here,” he says when they reach his room. He gets a change of clothes for himself (he loves Baby’s leather but it makes his back sweaty in the warmer months) and fishes an old pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt from the bottom of a drawer. They smell like they’ve been in there since they moved in, but they’re clean. He thrusts them into Castiel’s hands and goes to the showers next. 

“My stall is the second to last on this side and Sam’s the third one on the other. The rest are up for grabs. You can use Sam’s soap and hair stuff, I guess. Towels are in the cupboard next to the sinks.” Castiel just stares at him. “Well? What are you waiting for? Go get cleaned up.” And with that, Dean gets into his own stall and starts undressing. 

He hears Castiel open and shut the cupboard, but when he turns on the shower he can’t hear anything else. When he’s done and steps out, water still dripping from his hair onto his fresh Henley, Castiel’s shower is still running. “Join us in the kitchen when you’re done, okay?” he shouts over the sound of the water.

As usual, there’s no reply. 

“This is the dumbest thing you’ve ever done,” Sam says as soon as Dean walks back into the kitchen.

“I don’t know about that. Remember that waitress in Tampa?”

“I’m serious, Dean.” 

“Let me guess. The internet says this won’t be as easy as Bela said.”

“Actually, it looks like it will.”

“Really? That’s awesome.” There’s got to be a catch, though, or else Sam wouldn’t be sporting that frown.

“Dean, from what I’ve seen so far, it looks like an angel slave would sell for a lot more than what she owed us for the spell. Like, fifty times more, at least. Don’t you think something is... off?”

“She was scared, she made a poor judgment call. I’m not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, Sam. Right now, all I care about is getting rid of the slave that’s using up all our hot water, so we can get our hard-earned cash. I don’t know about you, but I don’t work for free.”

Sam raises his eyebrows at that.

“Hunting isn’t _work_ ,” Dean clarifies. “And silver ain’t cheap, Sammy. I don’t want to get my heart ripped out by a werewolf just because you got squeamish about this.”

Sam sighs and all but slumps over the table on the exhale. “I guess slave trading isn’t the worst thing we’ve done.”

“It’s not illegal.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s right.”

There’s nothing Dean can say to that. 

“If we’re going to do this,” his brother says, “we’ll need photos for, um, advertising. There’s a sigil on the collar that will manifest his wings.”

“Yeah, Bela showed me.”

“Okay. Well, from what I’ve seen, we’ll need front and back pictures, wings spread out. And... um... no clothes on.”

 _What?_ “Like, full frontal?”

“Yeah.”

“What if he doesn’t want his nudes posted online?”

“That’s the way it’s always done. If he’s wearing clothes in the pictures, even if it’s just underwear, it would imply there’s something we’re trying to hide, some defect or, or, _deficiency_.”

“That’s just...”

“I know.” 

“So if he says no, I gotta... what? Force him? Rip his clothes off?”

Sam grimaces. “I guess we could get away with pictures above the waist. Definitely no shirt, though.”

“I hate this whole thing.”

“What did you expect when you got us into this, Dean? That we’d just post ‘angel slave for sale’ on Craigslist and ship him out by FedEx?”

Dean throws his hands up. “I’ll talk to him about the pictures when he gets here, all right? Don’t get your panties in a twist.”

“He’s still showering?”

“He’s more of a princess than you, apparently.”

Sam throws him one of his patented bitchfaces and sits back at the computer. “We’ve got an inline heat exchanger. The hot water is not going to run out.”

“You know what? You’re right. He _is_ taking too long. I’ll go get him.”

  


***

  


Dean finds Castiel sitting on one of the benches in the bathroom, hair almost dry. He’s wearing the clothes Dean gave him; they are a size or two too big for him, but they fit well enough to keep everything covered. 

“Hey. We were waiting for you in the kitchen. Why didn’t you come?”

“I wasn’t done.”

“What?” Dean thinks he looks done enough. What’s he waiting for, deodorant?

“You ordered me to go to the kitchen when I was done.”

“I wasn’t _ordering_ \-- Ugh, whatever. When are you going to be done? We need to take pictures.” 

“Of course,” Castiel says, rolling his eyes. 

“We’ll do it here in the bathroom, it’s got the best light. Not that I know anything about photography. It’s just that my phone’s got a crappy camera and... I don’t know why I’m explaining myself to you. Just go stand over by that wall. I want to get this over with.”

Castiel stands up and does as told, taking his t-shirt off on the way. Dean thanks god that the angel is familiar with all this; he wasn’t sure how to bring up the ‘naked’ issue. He opens the camera app on his phone and when he looks up, Castiel is pushing the sweatpants down his legs. 

Dean gets a flash of angel junk before he quickly pulls his gaze up. “Keep those on!”

Castiel tilts his head for a moment. In no hurry, he pulls his pants up. 

Maybe the angel doesn’t mind flashing the family jewels for the world to see, but Dean doesn’t really want to get an eyeful, thank you very much. As an afterthought, he resolves to give Castiel underwear. Shoes, too. He looks at Castiel’s bare feet. “What shoe size are you?” 

“I don’t know. It wasn’t relevant in previous transactions, as far as I’m aware.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Whatever. We’ll take pictures from the waist up. First like this and then from the back. And, uh...” He steps closer to Castiel and reaches out toward the collar. “I’ll have to...”

Castiel’s fingers wrap around his wrist, stopping him. “I can do that myself.”

Dean nods, and the wings are suddenly there in front of him, dark against the white tiled wall. Under the harsh fluorescent light of the bathroom, they look almost dead. Dean always imagined angel wings to be fluffy and white. Pretty. Is this really how they look? Or does Castiel have particularly ugly wings? 

Dean steps back and tries to make the enormous wings fit inside the camera frame while keeping the sweatpants out of it. Castiel stands ramrod straight, eyes fixed on a point above Dean’s head. After a moment, without being told, he turns around. Dean manages to take several decent pictures, but parts of the wings get cut out, even folded as they are. He sends them to Sam’s phone and hopes they will do.

“Let’s go,” he tells Castiel, and goes to his room to get the underwear and shoes. Castiel stops outside the door, and Dean feels kind of like a dick for keeping him out like a stray dog. “Come inside.” He gets an old-ish pair of briefs that he won’t miss and fishes a pair of cheap sneakers from under a pile of muddy boots. 

When he turns around, Castiel is standing by the bed, naked.

“What the hell?!” Dean throws the briefs at the angel. “Put something on, for god’s sake! This isn’t a nudist beach!” 

“How could I have known you wanted me in this?” Castiel says crossly, holding up the garment with two fingers. 

“That’s what I can give you, okay? You can go commando for all I care, but in this house we wear pants at all times. Understood?”

Castiel tilts his head, eyes narrowing. 

“What?” Dean asks. But the angel is silent. “Well? Tell me.”

Castiel affects that lemon-sucking expression again. “You made me clean up and come in here. I assumed you wanted me.”

“Wanted you for what?” Dean asks, but even before he’s finished the question he realizes he already knows the answer.

“For intercourse.”

Bela’s words about not catching anything from an angel come rushing back to Dean’s mind. He doesn’t want to think about them, or about Castiel’s resigned acceptance at the prospect of... Dean can’t even say it in the privacy of his own mind. How could anyone feel entitled to their slaves like that? “That’s not how I get my rocks off.”

Castiel looks away. Dean’s words might have been harsher than he intended.

His phone beeps and he checks the screen, grateful for the interruption. Sam has already found a potential buyer and they’re meeting him in Nebraska today. “Well, that was fast.” He drops the sneakers in front of Castiel and turns to leave. “Get dressed and come to the kitchen. Don’t keep us waiting this time.”

  


***

  


“You’re good at that Internet crap. I didn’t think we’d find someone so soon.” Dean gets a beer from the fridge and hands it to Sam, who shakes his head without looking away from the laptop. Dean twists the cap and takes a swig himself.

“Actually, I got about a dozen other messages apart from this one, despite the state of Castiel’s wings. Most of them were questions about his, um, lower half... some were very specific... but two seemed solid enough that they might be good backups.”

“So his wings _are_ uglier than average.”

“They are damaged, not ugly. They’ll heal.”

“Bela said that’s just how they look.”

“It isn’t.” Sam turns the laptop toward Dean. On the screen there’s a picture of a redhead, pale against a backdrop of thick, lush brown feathers. Her wings look beautiful, shiny and healthy, no gaps letting the skin show through.

“What do you think happened to Castiel’s?” Sam asks, voice hushed like they’re sharing secrets.

It’s one more thing Dean doesn’t want to think about. “I guess angel slaves really are a scarce resource. That’s why they sell like hot cakes, even the damaged ones.” He finishes the bottle and throws it in the trash can. “I don’t get why people want to buy them, though. I mean, human slaves are cheap labor, but angel slaves are way too expensive.”

“Exactly. Luxury items provide prestige.” 

“Bullshit.”

“It’s just the way it is. And they are also particularly prized because of their powers.”

Dean frowns. “Wait a second. I though the collar was supposed to keep him powerless?”

“I’m not really sure how it works. Powers weren’t explicitly mentioned in anything I’ve read so far, but it’s there if you read between the lines. I did gather that wings are a big deal, though, so maybe it’s something about that? Like, I don’t know, showing off your slave’s wings or something.” 

“They do look pretty spectacular,” Dean muses, thinking of the pictures Sam showed him. 

“I wonder how it all works. I didn’t find anything yet except the thing about the sigil on the collar. Are they, like, normally invisible and the sigil makes them visible? Or is it the other way around?”

“I’ve no idea. I just know you touch that symbol and his wings spring free from... I dunno, inside his back, I guess.”

“They are not _inside my back_ ,” a gruff voice says from the doorway. Castiel comes into the kitchen mercifully dressed. 

“Where do they go away to, then?” Dean asks him.

“They don’t. They are just not visible to human eyes without the aid of magic.”

Dean extends a hand, pawing at the empty air next to the angel.

“Or tangible, either,” Castiel adds sourly. 

Dean bristles. “What took you so long, anyway? Did you touch anything in my room?”

“Everything,” Castiel replies, rolling his eyes. 

Dean has just about had enough of the slave acting up like that. Half the time he ignores Dean, half the time he mouths off, and every time it gets on Dean’s nerves even worse than Sam’s mood swings. “We found a buyer.”

Castiel’s eyebrows shoot up. He quickly schools his features back to their default squinty blankness, but Dean has already seen his surprise.

“That’s right, we got to work right away so we could get this whole thing over with as soon as possible. We’re getting rid of you _today_.”

“Dean,” Sam cautions.

“What?”

Sam purses his lips. “Anyway, they buyer is from Pittsburg and he’s already on his way. We’re meeting him in Grand Island in--” he checks the clock on his laptop “--two hours.”

“We can grab lunch on the way if we leave in ten.”


	3. Chapter 3

In the end they leave in thirty, so there’s no time for lunch. Sam decided last minute that he wanted to do some more in-depth research on the buyer, just in case. 

“He seems okay,” he declares finally. “For a slave owner, at least.”

“Hey, I’m a slave owner!”

They head to the garage, all three of them. Dean stashes his gun in the pocket of his jacket and hands a recently sharpened knife to Sam. Castiel eyes the weapons warily, as if they were grenades that could blow up any moment if not handled with care.

“It’s for protection,” Sam tells the slave. Always stating the obvious, his brother. What else could they be for?

Sam is back on his laptop as soon as they get on the road. Castiel stares out the window with pupils so still he might as well be catatonic. Dean turns on the radio. Bon Jovi’s ‘Living on a Prayer’ is on. He doesn’t change the station. 

“Any idea how this is gonna go?” he asks Sam. 

“I’m not sure. I couldn’t find any details on what we should expect. I figure the guy will want to check out the...” he falters, winces “...merchandise, and either we close the deal right there or he’ll ask us for some time to think about it or maybe to get the money.”

Dean doesn’t want to wait. “How much time?”

“Don’t worry, if he doesn’t make up his mind quickly, there’s other potential buyers in line. I just have to make sure they’re safe.”

“What about the checking out part?” Bela offered him to ‘carry out inspections’ if he wanted. He had assumed she meant visually, but perhaps there’s something else that normally happens during this kind of transaction?

Sam’s shoulders go up. “No idea.”

Dean catches sight of Castiel in the rearview mirror and remembers the slave has been sold several times, according to his papers. “If anyone in this car knows how these things usually go, it’s Solomon Northup in the back seat. Hey, Castiel!”

The angel drags his eyes away from the window like it pains him. 

“What’s the transaction like?” Dean asks.

“I don’t know. I’ve never sold a slave.” 

Dean grips the wheel tighter so he won’t punch the dashboard. He’s not going to keep letting the slave bait him with his backtalking and his disobedience, so he lets the issue drop for now.

When they arrive in Grand Island, Sam directs them to a self-storage facility right off route 34. Dean drives toward the back, where a red utility Chevrolet is parked in the otherwise deserted parking lot. 

Sam shuts his laptop and stashes it under the seat. “Michigan plates. It’s him, Gordon Walker.”

“Grab the folder from the glove compartment,” Dean instructs his brother. To make it clear that he means business, he opens Castiel’s door. “Get out.”

Walker exits his car at the other end of the parking lot and Dean starts making his way toward him, Sam by his side and Castiel behind him. Through the glare on the hot asphalt he realizes Walker isn’t moving, though. He’s got one hand extended in front of him, the other behind him. Dean’s hand automatically flies to his own gun. Sam extends his arm to keep Castiel behind them. They stand frozen for a second, like a parody of a Western. 

“So much for _safe_ ,” Dean mutters.

“What’s your game?” Walker shouts at them.

“What’s yours?” Dean shouts back.

“It’s unleashed!”

“Unleashed?” Sam asks Dean, voice low.

“Bela gave him to me with a leash,” Dean explains. “A chain. But it’s no use for anything, he can just take it off.”

“Just get it, Dean.”

“Fine. Keep an eye on Walker. And Castiel,” he adds as an afterthought. He fetches the leash from the car and moves into Castiel’s space to fasten it. Castiel, unsurprisingly, leans away, but Dean saw it coming so in one quick move he grabs the angel’s collar with one hand and clasps the hook onto it with the other. Castiel could have fought harder, Dean knows. He keeps being difficult but it’s just token resistance. Dean doesn’t know what Castiel could possibly hope to achieve with this behavior. 

“There,” Dean shouts at Walker, stepping aside and holding the leash up for him to see.

That seems to be enough for the other man, who finally approaches them. He stops five feet away though, eyes fixed on Castiel.

“How long have you had it?” he asks.

“Uh, ‘bout a year.” Dean doesn’t think saying ‘less than a day’ will help their chances for a quick sale. 

“And why are you selling it?”

“I need the money, simple as that.”

“Hm. Well, let’s see the wings, then.”

Dean turns to Castiel. “You heard him.”

“I did,” Castiel answers. 

Nuh-uh. They can’t afford this right now. Dean yanks on the chain and, when Castiel stumbles toward him, reaches out to touch the wing sigil on the collar. Both Sam and Walker jump back when the appendages become visible and spread out. Walker looks at them with a frown on his face, and Sam with wide, awestruck eyes.

“Is the rest of it as mishandled, too?” Walker asks.

Dean winces. “No. This was just an accident.” 

“Then you won’t mind if I take a closer look.”

“Be my guest.”

Walker is already approaching the slave before Dean realizes what the guy meant. He probably won’t try to take Castiel’s clothes off in the middle of the parking lot, Dean hopes, but everything that would be appropriate to display in public was already visible in the pictures Sam posted online. He shares a look with Sam, but just as Walker reaches out toward Castiel, the angel’s wings lunge forward. Dean and Sam both flinch, startled, and Walker jumps back like ten feet, arms flailing. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Dean demands from the angel. Castiel’s movement was small, clearly intended to jump-scare his potential buyer and nothing more.

“Don’t worry,” Castiel replies, mouth tilted in a barely noticeable half-smirk. “His pants were already wet from the moment he saw I didn’t have a flimsy chain tied to my neck.” 

Walker’s right hand reaches behind him again. “I’m not afraid of a filthy piece of scum like you!”

“Okay, McFly, take it easy,” Dean hurries to say. He needs to secure the sale before things get even more out of hand. “Let’s talk business, shall we?”

“Business?” Walker says. Spit flies out of his mouth. “You really think you can sell me, or anybody, this?”

“You contacted us.”

“This rebellious _thing_ is a ticking bomb, and you know it. That’s why you’re trying to get rid of it. Well, you picked the wrong guy to scam. I wouldn’t pay half what we agreed for this menace.”

“I wouldn’t sell him at half price, anyway!” Dean counters.

“Good luck selling it now, then!” Walker retreats a few steps and only turns his back on them once he’s several feet away. 

Dean jabs his finger into Castiel’s collar to hide the wings, resisting the urge to just shove his entire fist into the slave’s face. “Get in the car,” he grits out.

Dean steps hard on the gas pedal once they get on the road. He can see Sam sneaking glances at the speed meter, but his brother keeps his mouth shut. He’s a smart kid. Unlike certain angels who are once again staring out the window like they didn’t just sabotage the entire transaction.

“That was a very stupid thing, what you did back there,” Dean says. He looks in the rearview mirror, but Castiel doesn’t give any signs that he heard him. “With an attitude like that, we’ll never get anyone to buy you.”

“That’s not my problem,” Castiel has the nerve to answer.

“Oh, yeah? Well, I’m gonna _make_ it your problem, then.” His voice is increasing in volume but he doesn’t care. “Listen to me, this is a lot of money we’re talking about. We had a solid deal and you ruined it. I’m sure we’re already getting fewer offers than we should, what with your physical defect--”

“Dean,” Sam cautions.

“No, Sam. Castiel is mine, plain and simple. If I have to tie him up and gag him to make sure he behaves, then so be it.”

“Dean!”

“He’s my property, I can do whatever I please!” In the resulting silence, his own raised voice seems to ring in his ears. He eases up on the gas pedal and takes a deep breath. When he next speaks, he is back to normal decibels. “See if you can arrange another meeting as soon as possible. I don’t want him around for one second longer than necessary.”

Twenty miles later, he feels calm enough that there’s no immediate danger of him busting anyone’s eardrums. His blood pressure has let up enough that his stomach is starting to notice it hasn’t been fed anything solid since yesterday. Well, he’s not going to let the angel ruin his lunch. He stops the car at the next roadside diner he finds; it looks rather below their usual standards, which are practically nonexistent, but he’s hungry and out of patience. 

“I’ll get it to go,” he tells Sam. He wants to get home already, and possibly avoid mysterious substances sticking to the back of his pants from sitting down at one of the tables in this place.

Back in the car, he hands out the food he bought – burgers for himself and Castiel and a chicken salad for his health-freak little brother. “Got you the same as me,” he tells the slave as he gives him the paper bag. “Didn’t know what you liked.”

“You could’ve asked,” Sam points out.

But Castiel doesn’t have anything to say. He just takes the proffered bag and fishes out the contents. Dean turns the engine on and gets back on the road, one hand on the wheel and one on his napkin-wrapped burger. On the rearview mirror, he sees Castiel chewing on his food with a thoughtful expression, licking his lips after swallowing. It looks like he likes burgers after all. Well, who doesn’t?

  


***

  


When they get home, Dean makes a bee line for the spirits cabinet and pours himself a drink. He can tell he’s got a killer headache coming on and he wants to be asleep before it grows full-blown. Sam and Castiel hang back at the garage, talking about who knows what. How to get on Dean’s nerves, probably. 

“Did you know he can’t take the chain off himself?” Sam asks when he eventually comes in. He sets his laptop on the table and hangs Castiel’s coiled leash on the back of a chair.

“What?”

“The chain you hooked to his collar. He can’t take it off himself. Did you know that?”

“What, he’s got butter fingers? Can’t find a mirror?”

“It’s the way the collar works. He can’t unhook the chain, someone else has to do it for him.”

“Huh,” is Dean’s useless reply. He doesn’t really care. He downs his glass and pours himself another one. “You want a drink?”

Sam shakes his head as he sits down in front of his laptop. “I gotta work. We need to find another buyer.”

“Because Castiel scared off the first one.”

Sam shrugs.

“Hours of your work, not to mention about six gallons of gas, just to watch that asshole being a little shit.” 

“Maybe he didn’t like Walker.” 

“Tough, Sam! I don’t like _him_ and I gotta suck it up and deal.”

“Yeah, but you accepted him. Like, willingly. That was your choice.”

Dean slams his now empty glass on the table. “He’s a slave. He doesn’t get a choice.”

“And you think that’s fair?”

“You know what’s _not_ fair? That I have to let this jerk into my home, clothe him, feed him, when all I wanted was our money. _That’s_ not fair, Sam. What if he does this again, huh? And again and again and again. What if we can never sell him?”

“Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know! I don’t know what goes on in that mind of his. He’s not even human!”

“He’s not an animal, Dean. We can talk to him, explain--”

“There’s no talking to him! He thinks he can call the shots around here, like he’s...” he trails off into a sigh. “I don’t know. I don’t know, Sam. I’ve had it up to here with this guy.”

“I’ll talk to him, then. Maybe it’s better that way, actually. You’re pretty wound up.”

“You think?” Dean says, heavy on the sarcasm. His head already feels like someone is pounding it with a hammer from the inside, and he’s not even buzzed yet. He runs both hands over his face. “Where is he, anyway?”

“Probably still in the garage. I’ll go check.”

“He’d better not be touching any of my rides. He likes snooping around. I’ll go check my room just in case.”

Castiel is not in Dean’s room, and he’s not in the garage, either. Sam says all the vehicles are still parked, though, so he’s probably still inside the bunker. They split the area to cover and get to work. 

Dean searches each room quickly; there are only so many places where a full-sized man can hide. He checks under beds, inside closets, behind shelves and cabinets, inside each stall in the bathroom. When he gets to archive room 7B, he notices the hidden door to the dungeon is open. 

He steps inside silently and fully alert. Castiel is in there, his back to Dean. He’s peering at the tools that hang on one of the walls; an assortment of knives, hammers and chains that Dean keeps on display mostly for decorative purposes, just to give the room a proper dungeon ambiance. 

“What are you doing here?” 

Castiel practically jumps out of his skin. He turns and stares at Dean, but doesn’t answer. So he thinks he can answer Dean’s questions only when it pleases him, huh? Well, Dean’s had enough of that.

“You can’t just fuck off whenever you want, leave my sight, wander around poking your nose everywhere in my home. Especially not now, after that stunt you pulled in Grand Island. Who do you think you are, huh?” He takes a step forward, but Castiel stands his ground, so Dean takes another, and another, and only when he’s three feet from Castiel does the angel step back. Dean keeps pressing forward, forcing him to keep retreating. “You think you can do whatever you want? Is that it? You think I’m gonna _let_ you?” 

Castiel’s back hits the wall and he stumbles a little, reaching a hand out toward Dean. Dean’s primal brain interprets it as an attack so he grabs Castiel’s arm and pins it against the wall with one hand, the other flying to the angel’s neck, wrist brushing the metallic collar as he grips Castiel right below the jaw. 

“I’m sorry!” Castiel cries out, voice choked by the pressure around his throat. His eyes are wide, his face contorted.

Dean immediately lets go and steps back. His head is spinning with how quickly things got out of hand. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he says, because it seems important.

Castiel keeps his back flat against the wall, the fear in his eyes slowly giving way to something else that Dean can’t quite read. “Why not?” he asks, voice quiet.

The question takes Dean aback. “What do you mean?” 

Castiel gestures at the tools on the wall. “Isn’t this how you get your rocks off?” 

“Huh?”

“If it’s not with sexual intercourse,” Castiel clarifies.

The blunt reminder of their previous conversation in Dean’s room—and of all its implications—washes over Dean like a bucket of cold water. “This room is for the things we hunt,” he explains. “The monsters. Supernatural beings.”

“Like myself.”

There’s a silence following the angel’s statement that Dean desperately wants to fill, but he doesn’t know how. Then the sound of approaching steps echoes from the hallway and he doesn’t have to think about it anymore.

“You found him,” Sam says as he comes in.

“Thank god,” Dean replies, aiming for levity, “because I was about to pass out from starvation.”

“You ate three hours ago.”

“Precisely. Let’s get dinner started.” He gestures for Sam and Castiel to get out and closes the shelf-slash-door behind them.

Sam grabs Dean’s shoulder and holds him back a little. “You go ahead,” he tells Castiel. “We’ll be right there.” When the angel is out of sight, he turns to face Dean. He looks way more worried than the situation warrants, in Dean’s opinion. “You okay? What happened?”

“Nothing. I’m fine.” But something must be showing on his face for Sam to ask him that.

“What was he doing here, anyway?”

“I dunno. Just looking. He was kinda panicking, I think.”

“About your wall decorations,” Sam deduces. 

“He’s got no reason to freak out about them. It’s not like I’m gonna use them on him.”

“Does he know?”

“Of course he does, Sam. I haven’t laid a finger on him, not once.”

“You said you were going to tie him up and gag him.”

“That was a figure of speech!”

Sam runs a hand through his hair. “Dean, being a slave is a very traumatic experience. I mean, I guess it is. It’s not like either of us can even begin to comprehend what it feels like. He probably suffered a lot of abuse at the hands of his previous owners, Bela or whoever they were. I mean, you saw his wings...”

“Yeah.”

“And there’s probably other things, things we haven’t seen. Maybe things that didn’t leave behind any marks.”

Dean cringes. He _knows_ , but he doesn’t want to think about it, doesn’t want to think about the way he himself has been treating the angel, because abuse can come in many forms, not just physical. He doesn’t want to be that kind of guy, he really doesn’t, and the fact that Castiel is all but asking for it is absolutely no excuse.

“He must be scared to death,” Sam continues, “knowing he’ll be given to whoever is willing to pay for him, and unable to do anything about it. I check every single person who contacts us and dig up everything I can on them, but Castiel is not there with me when I do it. He doesn’t know what kind of person will own him next. His entire life is about to change and he can’t predict whether it’ll be for the better or for the worse. That’s why he’s acting out.” 

“So what are you saying? That we should _not_ sell him?”

“No, of course not, Dean. We can’t keep him. What I’m saying is, maybe we should take it a little easier on him, you know? Talk to him, listen to him... basic human courtesy.”

There’s nothing Dean can say to that.

They end up making pasta for dinner, quick and easy. The Pomodoro is pre-packaged because Dean is not really in the mood for cooking and Sam could burn water trying to make it boil.

“Tomato sauce?” he asks as he’s serving their plates.

“Sure,” comes Sam’s reply.

“Castiel? You want tomato sauce on your spaghetti?”

The angel’s reply takes a little longer, but he finally says a simple, “Yes.”

Not much is said while they eat. It takes actual effort for Dean to swallow his food past the weight inside his chest. There’s no use denying it, at least not inside his own head – he’s been taking out his frustration on Castiel, and while the angel isn’t as well-behaved as Dean would prefer, he doesn’t deserve to be constantly afraid. It’s not his fault that he’s a slave... probably. Maybe. 

Sam drops his empty plate in the sink and leaves, eyes on his phone, completely oblivious to the rest of the world. Dean looks down at his own half-full plate and gives up. 

“Want some more?” he asks.

Castiel shakes his head.

“Let’s get you settled down for the night, then.” He gets up and clears the table, leaving the washing up for Sam. Castiel’s eyes are on him the whole time, wide open rather than narrowed in their usual squint. 

Dean gets fresh linens and basic toiletries from the closet in the hallway and leads them to room number fifteen, which is already set up with a bed, a dresser and an old (but working) sink – the basics for a short stay. He starts making the bed. Castiel stares, offering no help.

“So,” Dean says, using his task as an excuse not to make eye contact. “Today didn’t work out. With Walker, I mean.” No comment from the angel. “We’ll keep looking, find you a home soon enough. Sam is good at finding stuff. And people. He screens all potential buyers, you know? Of course you do, you heard him. What I mean is, it’s not just for our safety, it’s for yours, too. Just so you know.” He finishes the bed and turns to look at Castiel, who is still staring, motionless. The silence between them stretches until it becomes awkward. “Okay, I’ll leave you in peace, then. Good night.”

“Should I lie on the bed?” Castiel asks before Dean closes the door.

“Of course. Where else?”

  


***

  


Dean gets a couple of beers from the fridge and takes them to the library, where Sam is sitting at one of the tables with his laptop. This time, Sam does accept the offered bottle. 

“I’ve arranged another meeting,” he tells Dean. 

The good news fail to improve his mood. “How soon?”

“Tomorrow, noon. Josie Sands. She’s flying in from Minnesota in the morning and we’re meeting her in Kansas City. Is that okay?”

“Yeah, sure.” He drops into a chair, feeling like he weighs twice as much as he did before meeting Castiel. “I can’t believe this is what our lives have become.”

“This?” 

“Saving people, selling slaves... the family business.”

“It’s a tough economy,” Sam replies, laughing. The sound makes Dean feel lighter in a way nothing else can.


	4. Chapter 4

_Josie Sands is standing alone on the otherwise deserted beach, long white dress flowing in the wind, hair dark against the grey sky. Castiel walks toward her and Dean follows him, Sam by his side._

_“Name your price,” she tells the angel._

_“I have none,” he replies._

_“But I want to own you.”_

_“That’s not my problem.”_

_She addresses Dean next, looking at him over Castiel’s shoulder. “He doesn’t want to be owned.”_

_“I don’t care,” Dean says. “He’s my property, I can do whatever I please!”_

_Castiel turns to face him. His wings are splayed wide and raised, ready. He takes a step forward and Dean notices with alarm that the collar around his neck is gone. A gust of wind shakes the angel’s hair and clothes but his wings remain statue-still._

_“Stay back,” Dean warns._

_“You can’t own me,” Castiel says. It sounds like he’s speaking right into Dean’s ear. He takes another step forward and Dean takes one back._

_“You’re mine,” Dean insists. It’s a feeble statement. It doesn’t mean anything._

_Castiel reaches out and grabs Dean’s shirt, pulling him closer until there’s no more than an inch of space between their faces. His wings bend around them, enveloping their bodies like a storm, and he opens his mouth, to speak or maybe to absorb or maybe--_

Dean jolts awake with a gasp. His throat convulses and sends him into a coughing fit. He sits up, sweat-soaked sheets sliding down his chest. He feels around in the dark for his nightstand and the cellphone lying on it. It’s six fifty-three, almost time to get up.

  


***

  


They leave on time but Dean makes sure they reach Longview Lake twenty minutes early. It’s a hot, clear day, so he parks the car under a tree and the three of them walk down to the narrow, pebbled beach. Dean takes the manila folder and the leash with him.

“I hope this goes better than yesterday,” he says. “Think you can play nice this time?” 

Castiel, predictably, doesn’t answer.

“See? That’s all you need to do, keep your mouth shut and let the humans do the talking. Like you did at Bela’s. You didn’t throw any tantrums for her, did you?” He turns to the angel, reaching up to shield his eyes from the sun. 

Castiel’s eyes narrow.

“It’s almost over, Dean,” Sam reminds him.

“Thank god.” It’s been less than two days, but it feels like at least a week. He wonders what it would have felt like if it had actually been a week. If perhaps they would have eventually grown more comfortable with one another and with the situation, if Castiel’s attitude would have improved in time and what that would have been like. Maybe it wasn’t always peaches and roses with Bela, either. Maybe it was just like this at the beginning and it took them weeks or even months to iron out the kinks. “Tell me, how long did Bela own you?” he asks conversationally. 

Castiel stares at him long enough that Dean thinks he’s going to ignore his question again, but then he grimaces and says, “Three days.”

Something in his answer and his attitude makes all the alarm bells in Dean’s brain go off. “Three days?” 

The sound of tires over gravel directs their attention to the side of the road. A glossy black Lexus slows down and stops across the beach. A woman steps out from the backseat, red hair neatly tied in a bun and light-colored suit gleaming in the sunlight. Dean hooks the leash to Castiel’s collar as she approaches.

“Sam double-u?” she asks him.

“Dean,” he clarifies. “This is Sam, my brother.”

She spares no glances for Sam, eyeing instead the chain in Dean’s hand. “You are the owner, I presume.”

“I am.”

Josie nods and walks toward Castiel with confident steps until she’s standing right in front of him. Castiel meets her eyes but doesn’t utter a sound. 

“Is there anything you’d like to discuss?” Dean offers. He can’t bring himself to speak plainly about inspections. 

Josie turns to him and looks him up and down, like Dean is the slave she’s about to buy. “I was contacted this morning by a man who warned me this was a scam.” 

What?

“Gordon Walker?” Sam asks.

“I only got the message once my plane landed,” Josie goes on, ignoring Sam’s question. “He didn’t share any details and I don’t know him personally, so I decided to check it out for myself, since I was already in Missouri.” She turns to Castiel again. “Unfortunately, I can clearly see that it is true.” 

“There’s no fine print here,” Dean assures her. “What you see is what you get.”

“Precisely.”

“What do you mean?” Dean asks. Castiel looks fine aside from his wings, but she hasn’t seen those yet.

“You’re not in the business,” she says matter-of-factly. 

“That is true, yes. I got him as payment from someone who owed us money, but I’m not interested in owning a slave--”

“Not one as insolent as this one,” she says, even though Castiel hasn’t opened his mouth.

“I just want my money, that’s all.”

“That’s a lot of money you were owed. What did you say your real business was?”

“I didn’t. And it wasn’t this much money, but they didn’t have it, they just had an angel slave.”

Josie smirks. “Oh, so _you_ are the one who got scammed. The man who contacted me was right, this is the same rebellious angel slave from a few weeks back. Castiel, I think its name was? I would have assumed it had been put down by now, considering it’s unsellable.”

  


***

  


The ride back to the bunker passes in complete silence. Dean doesn’t even turn on the radio. His own mind is a whirlwind so chaotic that no clear thoughts can form within it. 

Sam spends the entire trip on his laptop. Every now and then he makes a face. Dean doesn’t want to know why. 

Castiel sticks to his favorite pastime inside the car – staring out the window. His face is completely blank. 

As soon as they get home, the angel disappears into the hallway. Dean doesn’t have the energy to go check where he’s going. He does have the energy to pour himself a drink, though. 

Sam sits in front of him. He looks like he needs a glass as much as Dean, but he doesn’t ask for one. “So...”

“Just give it to me straight, Sam.”

“Okay. Fine. Everyone who was interested in buying Castiel has backed off.”

“Fuck.”

“Looks like Walker was quick to spread the word.”

“Have you tried starting from scratch again? Different name, pictures only from the back...”

“I did, but I didn’t get any new enquires. The slave-owning community is pretty tight, they look after one another.”

“Well, they _do_ trade slaves. Even if it’s legal, it’s risky business, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. And by now, word has spread. No one is interested in buying Castiel.”

Dean sets his elbows on the table and lets his head drop into his hands. Castiel’s attitude has now cost them not one, not two, but possibly _all_ sale opportunities. “Shit, Sammy.”

“I know.”

They shouldn’t have to deal with this. This isn’t the kind of business their family is in, and Dean doesn’t want to branch out. Castiel was supposed to be easily exchangeable for money without any hassle whatsoever, or so he had been promised. 

He sits up straight and looks his brother in the eye. “I’ll take him back to Bela’s tomorrow. Her two days are up.”


	5. Chapter 5

Five hours is a long time to be sitting next to someone you’re not really on speaking terms with. Even with the music on, the silence between him and Castiel is awkward enough that, when the cassette tape ends, it takes him half an hour to notice. 

“Get another tape, will you? They’re in a box under the seat.” 

Castiel dutifully picks up the box and sets it on his lap, peering at the contents.

“Pick any you like,” Dean offers like an olive branch. He extends a hand, palm up, and Castiel puts a tape case in it. “James Taylor? Seriously? I don’t even know what this shit is doing in there. Must be Sam’s. Is this the kind of stuff you listen to?”

“I don’t listen to music.”

“But this is what you like?”

Castiel opens his mouth, then closes it. Dean’s pretty sure he was spared an earful. The angel gestures at the box on his lap, instead. “I don’t know who any of these are.”

“Seriously? I mean, I’ve got Metallica in there.” He gets a blank stare. “AC/DC. Black Sabbath. Led Zepp.” Nothing. “Jeez, man, your lack of musical education is shameful.” Something on the angel’s face makes him reconsider his choice of words. “But it’s not your fault, I guess. Don’t sweat it.”

“I don’t sweat under any circumstances.”

Oookay. Weird. “I can’t believe no one taught you this, ever. Music is, like, basic human stuff. I’ll talk to Bela about sending you to classes, watcha say?” He aims for funny but his joke falls flat. “So you can learn, uh, human... stuff.” The silence he gets in response borders on painful. “Oh, come on! Cheer up! In a few hours you’ll be free.” _Jesus Christ._ “I mean, not _free_ free, but, uh, rid of me, at least. That’s what you want, isn’t it?” Hell, at this point even _Dean_ wants to be rid of himself. Castiel turns to look out the window. Dean pops the tape in and steps harder on the gas pedal. The roar of the engine mercifully drowns out James Taylor’s words about closing your mouth and opening your eyes.

  


***

  


After ten minutes of waiting on the porch, it’s clear that Bela either isn’t home or doesn’t want to open the door. 

“This is pointless,” Castiel complains. 

“She has to come back eventually. Let’s wait in the car and keep an eye out. If by midnight no one’s come in or out, we’re breaking in.”

Castiel rolls his eyes and heads for the car, stepping on the hems of his too-long sweatpants. Dean follows. There’s no point in arguing; Castiel will not come back to the bunker, and that’s final. No matter how hard he rolls his eyes, how loud he huffs or how caustic his comments get, it’s not his decision to make. He has to do what Dean says.

Even though the heat has let up now that the sun is setting, the inside of the Impala is still a few degrees hotter than the open street. Dean rolls down his window and looks at Castiel to signal him to do the same, but Castiel is staring at whatever is on the other side of the glass as usual, even though the car is standing still. Dean wants to tell him to just take a walk if he’s feeling trapped, but sensible people don’t just let their money walk around by itself, do they? Especially if said money could just keep walking and never come back. No, you’d take it for a walk yourself. 

...Like a dog. Dean’s mind goes to the leash in the glove compartment. “Does the leash actually keep you from walking away?” 

Castiel turns to him. His eyes look darker in the twilight. “No.”

“But you can’t take it off yourself.”

“No.”

“Then what’s it for?”

“I’m not sure yet.” 

The same alarms from Longview Lake go off in Dean’s brain again. Shouldn’t the angel have figured out its purpose after wearing it for so long? The question hovers on the tip of his tongue, ready to slip out, but he’s afraid of what Castiel’s answer might be. 

“I suppose it provides an artificial sense of safety,” Castiel continues.

“How?”

“I don’t know. You’re the human, emotions are your area of expertise.” 

“Come on, Spock, I know you have feelings too. Bitterness, apathy, resentment, fear...” 

Castiel makes a face. It gets a chuckle out of Dean, but his humor quickly dies down when he realizes that it’s possible Castiel hasn’t experienced a positive emotion in days. He puts the key in the ignition and turns it to the first position. The tail end of James Taylor’s ‘Don’t Let Me Be Lonely Tonight’ fills the silence. Baby’s battery is fairly new, so he figures he can let the rest of the tape play.

  


***

  


“Castiel? Wake up. It’s half past twelve.”

Dean puts a hand on Castiel’s knee and shakes him a little until the angel opens his eyes and peels his cheek off the window pane. His eyes search in the dark and land on Dean’s hand on his leg. 

“No sign of Bela,” Dean tells him, voice just above a whisper in the quiet of the night. “Let’s go take a look inside.”

Castiel rubs the sleep from his eyes and murmurs something that sounds like ‘pointless’. They get out of the car and cross the street, Castiel dragging behind. He’s slow to wake up, it seems. 

Dean rings the bell once more just in case. The sound echoes faintly in the silence. After a minute, he pulls out his lock-picking set and gets to work. 

The lock, it turns out, is much more complex than any he’s tried before. Maybe if Sam were here he could open it, but Dean is eventually forced to admit that this is way beyond his capabilities. Well, only one alternative left, then. He pockets his set, hitches up his jeans and throws his whole weight into a kick right below the doorknob. 

It doesn’t do anything more than flake off a bit of paint. 

At least the noise didn’t seem to wake the neighbors. 

“Help me out, will you?” he tells Castiel. He doesn’t think they can synchronize kicks well enough to be effective, but it bothers him to see the angel just standing there, rubbing his eyes and watching Dean try to get in the house like Dean might watch a fly try to find its way out a closed window. Dean expects him to cross his arms and make a derisive comment in response to his request, as usual, but Castiel moves closer to the door. 

“On the count of three?” Dean suggests.

Instead of answering, Castiel touches the lock with two fingers. There’s a momentary glow that radiates from the point of contact, and as soon as it dies down, the door swings open a crack. 

Dean stares. So angels can apparently open complex locks at will just by freaking touching them. “Son of a bitch. All this time you could’ve just done that.” 

“I didn’t want to.”

“I swear, you’re worse than Sammy when he was fourteen.” He pulls his gun out as a precaution and swings the door open all the way. “Stay behind me.”

The living room that greets them is empty. Not just empty of people, but of furniture, too. All that remains is an abandoned curtain rod on the floor by the shuttered window. Dust floats in the rays of streetlamp light coming in from the front door.

A quick inspection of the rest of the house yields more of the same. Dean doesn’t venture into the basement, but he’s sure he’s not going to find anything or anyone down there.

“She had already started to clear out the place before you first came here,” Castiel explains, always so helpfully well-timed.

Dean has truly been scammed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The songs featured in this chapter are James Taylor’s “That Lonesome Road” and “Don’t Let Me Be Lonely Tonight”.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean-centric chapter ahead. Saving people, hunting things – the Winchesters’ actual family business despite their unintended foray into slave trading.

Dean slams his glass on the library table hard enough to make Sam jump. He doesn’t care. How could he have been so blind? Not once did it cross his mind to ask Bela why she didn’t sell the slave herself. She has always been a con artist and Dean knew it. It was shortsighted of him to do business with her in the first place, but the angel thing was a whole new level of stupid. 

Of course she knew Castiel was unsellable. She probably made the mistake of accepting him from some lucky hunter who got a very expensive item in exchange, and then realized she had basically been sold a pig in a poke. She needed someone clueless and along came Dean, the perfect solution to getting rid of both the slave and her debt from the spell. She passed the pig on to him and bought herself two full days to disappear.

Clearly, Dean’s only option now is to keep trying to sell Castiel to some poor unsuspecting soul like himself, but until then, what does he do with a slave living in his house? 

“So,” Sam starts, voice cautious like he’s afraid Dean might snap at any moment. “What do you want to do?”

“What I _want_ to do doesn’t really matter, Sam. We need to focus on what we _can_ do. And right now we’ve got two choices. We keep trying or we give up.”

Sam nods once. There’s a lot Dean wants to tell him, but he doesn’t know how. His brother has been nothing but patient with this whole fiasco, putting up with Dean’s mistake and helping him fix it. 

“Someone out there is bound to want him, right?” Dean asks.

“I guess. I mean, it might take a while, but yeah, sure.”

“And meanwhile, we just... live with a slave.” Christ, their lives are so fucked up.

Sam laughs, a nervous chuckle that gives away he’s thinking the same as Dean. “How bad can it be, right?” 

Dean fills his glass to the rim once more. 

  


***

  


It’s Tuesday morning and the roommate situation hasn’t gotten any easier. Dean has been non-stop looking for something to hunt while Sam has been fruitlessly networking in a community that constantly skirts the line of legality, and Castiel has been mostly keeping to his own room, floating out on occasion to wail or whine about one thing or other like some kind of winged ghost. Dean has been just about ready to crawl out of his own skin.

“Check this out,” he says as soon as Sam walks into the kitchen, turning the laptop toward his brother.

“Senior couple found dead in Belle Plaine, Kansas,” Sam reads. 

“Whole chunks of their intestines cut out,” Dean adds.

“Jeez.”

“It’s a long shot, but worth checking out. What do you think?”

“Could be our kind of thing. We’ve hit the road for less.”

Dean beams. Nothing like the prospect of a hunt to put him back in good spirits. 

“What about Castiel?” Sam asks.

Dean’s smile wanes. “We can’t take him.”

“We can’t leave him alone here.”

“One of us has to stay.”

Dean is about to suggest they play rock-paper-scissors for it, but Sam sighs and stands up. 

“Okay,” he yields, “I’ll stay. There’s some reading I want to catch up on. This unexpected crash course on online sales has been taking up all of my time.” He walks over to the fridge and peers inside. “Want some yogurt?”

“Don’t be disgusting.”

  


***

  


With one last warning to Castiel to stay put and do everything Sam tells him while Dean is gone, he gets on the road and heads for Route 81 while his brother stays behind to play babysitter for the angel. Well, officially he stays behind for ‘research support’. 

Dean arrives in Belle Plaine a little after noon. He checks into the first motel he finds that’s under thirty dollars a night, quickly changes into a suit and tie and heads straight to the police department. 

“How may I help you?” the forty-something secretary asks him.

Dean flashes his fake FBI badge. “Agent Ward. I’m here to see the chief, Thomas Park”.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“I’m afraid I don’t. There wasn’t time, and this is an urgent matter.” 

“Urgent?”

“And confidential.”

She eyes him warily, but finally relents. “This way, Agent.” She leads him down a hallway into a poorly-lit office where a man in uniform, presumably Park, is sitting behind a desk.

“Tom, this is Agent Ward, FBI. He’s here about an – ah – urgent matter.”

“Officer Park,” Dean says, extending a hand.

Park stands up and shakes it, gesturing his secretary to leave. “Please, call me Tom. To what do we owe this visit, Agent?” 

“I’m here about Nana and PawPaw with the missing pieces.”

“Mr. and Ms. Murray? I didn’t realize their case had been classified a federal offense. What happened?”

“It’s only a precautionary measure, Tom,” Dean says through his most charming smile. “For the moment I’m here to gather the basics, ask some routine questions... you know the drill.”

“I don’t, actually. This is the first time our little town has been involved in something of this scale, at least since I became Chief of Police. Everyone here knows one another and we all live in peace. The Murrays were especially loved by the community, what with all the charity work they did for the church.” 

“What kind of work?”

“Teenagers, mostly. Kids battling addiction, or needing a summer job, that kind of stuff.” 

“I see. I’d appreciate any files you have on this investigation.”

“Sure.” Park rummages through a filing cabinet and pulls out a thin folder. “There’s not much yet. Our resources are not at their peak, considering there’s still a full year to go until the next election. The coroner’s report hasn’t come in yet, by the way, but it should be here by Friday.” 

Dean takes the folder and scans it quickly. The bodies are at the morgue in Sumner’s Medical Center. “Thank you very much, Tom.” He pulls a card from his pocket and hands it to the other man. “Please give me a call if there are any new developments in the case.”

“Will do, Agent.”

Dean heads for Sumner’s next, where the coroner directs him to the earthly remains of the Murrays. The sight is not a pretty one. Their wounds have been stitched closed and the bodies wiped clean, but it’s their faces that will star in Dean’s nightmares tonight. They are frozen in a horrific expression, eyes wide, mouths open, lips pulled back to reveal their dentures. 

“It can happen under certain circumstances,” the coroner says, noticing Dean’s stare. “It didn’t look as bad when they were first brought in, but the skin has lost most of its moisture by now.” 

“Right,” Dean says, pulling the sheets back over the perturbing faces. “What can you tell me about their internal organs? I understand some sections of their intestines were missing.”

“Yes, clean-cut with a sharp blade. Cause of death was heart failure, though. The cuts were performed post-mortem. About fifty percent of the small intestine is missing in each body, and almost the entire large intestine in the male, too. We’ve already boxed up what’s left but there are pictures if you need them.”

“I’d appreciate that, thanks.”

The pictures are as gruesome as Dean expected, and they indeed show neat cuts that were definitely not made by teeth or claws. So far, he’s got nothing to suggest a non-human monster other than the missing bits. Could be a sick sort of trophy for a psychopath. 

Dean skims through the whole report. The Murrays were found in bed when their daughter came by on Monday morning, but the autopsy places the time of death at around 3 PM the day before. There was no sign of forced entry, no planned visitors on Sunday that their daughter knew of, and no witnesses. 

After stopping by the cafeteria and scarfing down the driest sandwich he has ever paid five dollars for, Dean drives down Logan Street toward the home of Mrs. Edmonds, née Murray. She’s still too distraught for an interview, so Dean ends up talking to her husband instead, behind the closed door of the kitchen so as not to upset the children. 

“I’m so sorry, Agent Ward. This has been such a hard blow for my wife. She’s an only child.”

“I understand. I’ve been told the Murrays were very popular at church. They did some kind of, uh, charity work with teenagers?”

“Oh, yes. In the past decade, the population of Belle Plaine has dropped by almost twenty percent. Kids finish school and they move to the city, you know? Daniel and Susan felt their hometown was slowly dying and their grandchildren would leave too, eventually. So when they retired, they focused their free time on finding employment for these kids through the church community.”

“Was it working?”

“This is a small town, Agent. There’s not a lot to do around here that people are willing to pay for. Most of them prefer to spend their money once on unpaid labor rather than monthly on an employee, if you catch my drift. But Daniel and Susan weren’t like that, they advocated for abolition. They hired some of these kids themselves to do household chores and the like even though Daniel was still very much capable of raking the leaves and Susan of wiping the windows. But they wanted to create these opportunities, small as they were. Sometimes it was all they could do. They gave it one hundred percent, they did.”

“Sounds like they were very valuable for the community of Belle Plaine.” 

“Absolutely.”

“Can you think of anyone who might want to hurt them? Anyone who was against the work they did, or who might benefit by its dissolution?”

Edmonds shrugs. “Not really. The kids got a job, and those who hired them got the employees they were looking for. They basically just ran an employment office. I don’t understand why someone would do something like this.”

“You can rest assured we’ll leave no stone unturned until we find whoever did it, Mr Edmonds.”

“Thank you, Agent.”

Dean hands him a card. “Give me a call if you can think of anything else that might be of use to the investigation, no matter how small or... strange.”

He heads to the Murrays’ place next. The master bedroom is a gory mess, focused mainly on the bed but spread all over the floor boards and walls, too. There’s a pile of bloody linens and clothing in a corner, presumably gathered there by the police after they finished turning the room upside down for evidence. It’s messy enough that there’s bound to be DNA or other evidence left behind by the killer, but if it’s indeed a monster, it will definitely want to feed again before the long legal procedure yields any results. 

Something in the pile catches Dean’s eye and he crouches down to pull it out. It’s just an article of clothing, nothing out of place in a bedroom. Except he doubts either of the Murrays wore a pink beanie with knitted cat ears attached. 

His phone rings. His brother’s name is on the screen.

“Heya, Sammy. Everything okay?”

“Yeah, just called to let you know what I found. There’s not much, but many farmers around Belle Plaine have been complaining about vandalism to their herds.”

“Let me guess, the kind that involves blood and missing guts?”

“Exactly. Small scale, though, so there’s no official reports to the police. It’s just comments online and a tiny mention on one of the local newspapers from two months ago.”

“So we’re probably talking about only one monster who binge-watched too much Hannibal one day and decided to try a new delicacy.”

“Or an insecure murderer who thought they needed to rehearse before the main event.”

“Nu-uh. You didn’t see their faces.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Murrays. Their faces in the morgue.”

“They were dead... weren’t they?”

“Yeah, but _their faces_ , man. I’ve seen a lot of stiffs, but never something like that.”

“Why? What was up with them?”

“They were just... awful. Like they died of a fright and their faces just stayed like that. Completely deformed.”

“What could scare someone to death?” 

Dean tosses the beanie back into the pile of clothing. “A teenage girl.” 

Sam huffs out a laugh at that.

“So how’s your own teenager doing?” Dean asks.

“Okay, first of all, he’s not mine. If anything, he’s yours, though you know what I think about that. Second, he’s not a teenager.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“And third...” There’s a pause, then static as Sam sighs right onto the phone mic. “No luck yet.”

“Finding a buyer, you mean?”

“Yeah.”

“But he’s not giving you too much trouble, is he? Or do you need me to have a word with him? Put him on the phone.”

“No, no, it’s fine. I can barely tell he’s here, sometimes. He keeps mostly to himself. Doesn’t speak much.”

“He’d better. Every time he opens his mouth it makes me want to strangle someone. Preferably him.”

“He’s being held captive against his will, Dean. You should--”

“I should cut him some slack, yeah, yeah, whatever. He’ll be out of our hair soon, you just keep trying, okay?”

“I am.”

“Thanks, Sammy.”

“You owe me.”

Yeah, he does. 

It’s almost dinner time and he figures he’s made enough progress for the day, but since there’s no pay-per-view at the motel, he decides to stop by the church before finding somewhere that serves cheap hot meals. 

The First Baptist Sanctuary is closed at this hour, but it’s nothing that a couple of minutes with a lockpick can’t fix. There’s no residence on site; the place is deserted. Dean grabs a flashlight and heads to the secretary’s office. He finds what he’s looking for pretty fast – a folder with all the records of the Murrays’ work. There’s résumés, list of employers, and all the matches Daniel and Susan managed to make between the two. It’s not thick enough to have made much of a difference to the population of Belle Plaine as a whole, but enough that it’ll take Dean ages to look up and interview everybody on it. 

Something on the wall behind the desk catches his eye. It’s a large bulletin board with lots of photographs pinned to it full of smiling people. In one of them, there’s a group of about ten teenagers gathered round a desk in the same office Dean is in, and behind them stands an older couple – Daniel and Susan, smiling for the camera, barely recognizable as the same faces Dean saw at the morgue. Right in front of the couple is a girl, no older than eighteen, wearing a pink beanie with cat ears. She is smiling, too, long blond hair peeking out from under the hat and cascading onto her denim jacket. She looks like your average unemployed teenager, but looks can be deceiving, can’t they? Then again, her hat at the Murrays’ doesn’t really prove anything. She could have been there helping Susan with the windows or whatever it was that she and her husband employed teenagers for.

Dean quickly scans the résumés in the folder, but none of them have a picture that matches. He finds the one of Nathan Tyler, though – the kid who is standing right next to her in the group photograph. Sixteen years old, student at Belle Plaine High School. Worth a shot.


	7. Chapter 7

_Dean opens the bunker door slowly, dread pooling in the pit of his stomach. Something is wrong, he can feel it._

_“Sammy?”_

_There’s no reply. He walks down the stairs, past the War Room and the library, down the hallway and into the kitchen. Inside, the place is covered in blood. There’s pools of it on the floor, splotches on the walls, speckles on the ceiling._

_Castiel stands next to the stove, stirring a pot with a large wooden spoon. The boiling contents are a nauseous shade of burgundy. ___

____

_“Sam told me to make him dinner,” Castiel says. He turns to face Dean, spoon dripping onto the already stained floor, and suddenly his wings are splayed wide behind him, bigger than the room they’re in. “So I did.”_

Dean wakes up shivering, sweat drying rapidly under the ceiling fan. His phone starts ringing and he snatches it from the nightstand, but it’s not Sam calling, it’s just his alarm going off. He sends a quick text to his brother just to check in and gets in the shower.

By 7:45 he’s standing outside Belle Plaine High School, coffee in hand, one eye on his phone and the other on the sleepy children. He’s too worried about the lack of messages from Sam to care that he’s acting like a creep. 

Nathan is easy to spot as he turns the corner; he’s almost as tall as Dean, ghostly pale and dressed all in black. 

“Nathan Tyler?” Dean asks, approaching. 

“Who are you?”

“Agent Ward, FBI.” He flashes his badge for a moment and quickly puts it back in his pocket. “I need to ask you a few questions about Daniel and Susan Murray’s employment program that you participated in.”

The kid hitches up his backpack with a twist of the shoulder, eyes shifting between Dean and the school building. “Uh, I should call my parents, I think...”

“It’s just routine questioning, you’re not under investigation yourself, but if you’d feel more comfortable we can call them and talk in their presence.”

“Um... Is it gonna take long? I don’t need another tardy note this early in the school year.”

“I’ll talk to the principal,” Dean lies. He takes out the photograph from last night and passes it to the kid. “The girl to your right in this picture, what can you tell me about her?” 

“Nicky? Um, Nicole something. I don’t know her last name. She doesn’t come to school, I think she’s a couple years older than me. I’m sorry, I don’t really know much. No one does. She’s, um, kind of shy.”

“Do you know where she lives?”

“She and her mom moved into town around Christmas last year. They live in the last house up Hillside Road, past the farms.”

“Do you know her mom, too?”

Nathan snorts. It sounds like sinusitis. “No.”

“What do you mean?”

“No one knows her mom.” He shrugs. “Must be more of a hermit than Nicky.”

Dean’s phone rings. It’s Sam. “Go on, Nathan. If you run you can make it before the bell rings.” He presses the green icon on the screen as the kid scurries away. “Fuck you, Sam.”

“You okay?”

“Me? I thought you were dead!”

“It’s barely been an hour since you texted me, Dean. I do have a life, you know?” 

Dean can picture his brother’s bitchface as clearly as if they were videochatting over Skype. “Did Castiel eat you yet?”

“What? Dean, angels don’t eat people. I think. Wait... this thing you’re hunting, you think it’s an angel?”

“I have no idea what it is. Like, none. And you’re not helping. Weren’t you supposed to be ‘research support’?”

“Yeah, but you didn’t give me much to go on.”

Dean sighs. “Let’s just go over it one more time. So, what do we know?”

“You said it was a teenager. A girl.”

“Yeah. Moved in with her mother last year. No one’s seen the mother, though.”

“Okay. And the victims died of a fright, right? Their faces petrified in a panicked expression. And whoever killed them took away parts of their intestines, presumably to eat or to--” There’s another voice in the background, too far away for Dean to recognize or make out the words, but he knows who it is. 

“Sam? What’s going on?”

“Hang on a second,” Sam says on the phone. There’s more muffled voices, this time a conversation. Sam’s phrases tilt at the end, like questions. 

“Sam?”

“Dean? Listen, Castiel thinks it might be a Witschatska.”

“A what now?”

“A double-faced monster. Apparently they’ve got a second face on the back of their heads, but it’s not a human face, it’s small and ugly and it can kill living beings with only a look, like Medusa. They don’t usually eat people, though. They go mostly for farm animals.”

“I eat farm animals.”

“Yeah, but not uncooked.”

“Wait, did Castiel tell you all this?”

“Yeah. Says he met one, um, a—a few centuries ago.”

The coffee inside Dean’s stomach turns to ice. How old is this guy?

“Fire will kill it,” Sam says, and it takes Dean a moment to realize he’s not talking about Castiel.

“Fire. Awesome. Listen, I’ve got an address for Harvey Two-Face, I’m on my way now. With any luck I’ll be back home before dinner.”

“Stay safe.”

Dean wants to quip ‘I never do’, but the image of Castiel holding a bloody spoon flashes in his mind and he says instead, “You too.” He hangs up before Sam can ask him what’s wrong. 

  


***

  


Nicky, turns out, lives alone in a barely furnished house. No mom. Oh, and she fights like a werewolf on steroids. 

Dean fires three more shots as she comes running after him with a kitchen knife. He might as well have brought a squirt gun, for all the good bullets are doing. Actually, a squirt gun would have been pretty useful if he had filled it with gasoline. He grabs the pillar at the end of the hallway and uses the momentum to spin and change direction into the living room, where he dropped the gas can a minute ago. His feet slide over the dusty wooden floor, failing to find purchase. He grabs the can and turns to find the girl barely ten feet away from him, facing the other way. He shuts his eyes before he can catch a glimpse of the horrid thing Castiel said is on the back of her head. 

Blind, he swings the can back and forward, hurling gas in her general direction. He can hear her approaching but he can’t remember which way the door is and if he opens his eyes he might become Dog Chow. He flicks on his lighter and tosses it in front of him, his last thought a prayer that Castiel won’t hurt his brother in case Dean hops the twig today. 

There’s an earsplitting screech and he feels the flames flare up, lighting up the back of his eyelids and sending waves of heat over his body. He instinctively cracks open an eye before his brain remembers that’s a no-no. 

He thanks every deity he can think of when he sees Nicky’s back face is scrunched up in pain, eyes pinched closed. And then takes his gratitude back when he takes in just how revolting it looks. It could barely be called a face at all. 

The girl writhes in agony for a few more seconds before dropping dead, body contorting under the dancing flames. The smell is nauseating. Dean walks out the front door and lets the fire spread to the furniture. 

The entire house is in flames in the rearview mirror as he drives away. A siren starts up in the distance.

  


***

  


“Welcome back,” Sam says, following Dean into the kitchen and peering into the plastic bags Dean just placed on the table.

“Hands off,” Dean warns as he swats his brother’s paws away.

“Whatcha making?”

“Burgers for me, a single leaf of lettuce for you.” He turns on the stove and places a pan on top. “Where’s Castiel?” 

“In his room, I guess.”

Dean gets the lettuce and tomatoes and hands them to his brother. “Rinse. So tell me the truth, how was everything while I was gone?” He opens a package of ground meat and sprinkles it with seasoning herbs.

Sam shrugs as he turns on the tap to wash the vegetables. “Boring. There’s hardly any lore on Witschatskas that I could find, and other than when I was on the phone with you, Castiel wasn’t very forthcoming about them.”

“Did he give you any trouble?”

“No. He was always either reading in the library or doing god knows what in his room. Didn’t join me for meals. He barely spoke ten words outside our conversation on two-faced monsters.” He pats the vegetables dry with a dish towel and starts chopping the onions without being asked. “You were worried, weren’t you?”

Dean clucks his tongue.

“You were,” Sam affirms. “I don’t know what you thought would happen.”

Dean looks at his hands, red from the ground meat he’s molding into patties. “Dude’s crazy,” he says. “We don’t know what he’s capable of.” 

“He seems okay to me. Well, as okay as he can be, I suppose, considering his situation.” 

“Just a few more days, Sammy. We’ll find a buyer soon.”

The smell of meat cooking, or perhaps the conversation about him, attracts the angel into the kitchen. Dean sees Sam’s eyebrows going up, but nobody says anything. Castiel stands by the door and simply watches them cook.

“So how was the hunt?” Sam asks. “Did fire do the trick?”

“Like pouring salt on a slug. Looked pretty similar, too.” 

Sam pulls a face. “Thanks for the visual right before dinner.”

“Be glad you didn’t have to see the _thing_ on the back of its head.” He exaggerates a shudder. “Makes me want to bleach mi eyes.”

“You saw it?” It’s Castiel. Both Dean and Sam turn to look at him. 

“Uh... yeah. Had its eyes closed, though.” 

“You could have died.”

Sam huffs at Castiel’s comment. “All in a day’s work. So, fries?”

“There’s half a bag in the freezer,” Sam supplies. 

Dinner is a quiet affair. Dean is pretty tired, so he welcomes the silence. He stuffs his mouth with the first burger before savoring the second and third. He watches Castiel eat, too. The angel doesn’t touch the fries, but he ends up eating two burgers himself. He clearly has a healthy appreciation for happiness between two buns.

Sam, meanwhile, spends the entire time on his phone, munching on a fry every few minutes and letting his half-eaten burger go cold.

“Watcha doing?” Dean asks.

“Nothing,” Sam replies automatically, thumb jabbing frantically at the screen.

So Dean does what any older brother would do – he snatches the phone out of his brother’s grasp. 

“ _Dean!_ ”

Dean catches a glimpse of a name on the screen before his brother seizes the phone back. 

“I hate you,” Sam declares.

“So. Eileen?”

Sam goes red in the face. “We were talking about two-faced monsters.”

“Is that how you pick up girls? No wonder you never get laid.”

“It’s not--” Sam chokes a little and has to swallow twice before continuing. “We discuss lore like any other two hunters do. Just helping each other.”

Dean leers. “ _Helping each other._ ”

“It’s not like that!” 

Sam looks ten seconds away from an aneurism so Dean takes pity on him. “Well, I’m beat. Gonna hit the sack.” He stands up and starts clearing the table, throwing Sam’s half-eaten dinner in the trash. “I did most of the cooking so you do the washing up.”

“When are we going to get a dishwasher?” Sam complains, standing up and turning on the tap to let the water heat.

“That shit costs money and we’re not exactly swimming in it at the moment, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“We could buy a used one, maybe at a garage sale.”

“I’ll play some pool to pay for your crappy, used dishwasher if you do the entire frigging plumbing to install it.” 

“It’s the twenty-first century and we’re still doing the dishes when we could have a machine doing it for us.” 

Dean boxes the leftovers and stashes them in the fridge. “Yeah, well, meanwhile we’ve got two people in this house capable of doing the job, you and me, and this time it’s your turn.” He turns to leave and catches Castiel’s gaze. The angel is staring at him with wide eyes.


	8. Chapter 8

By the time Dean wakes up the next morning, the coffee Sam made earlier is cold and stale, so he makes a new pot and, hot cup in hand, walks out into the library where his brother is typing away on his laptop and Castiel is curled up in the armchair reading a book. Dean tilts his head to catch the title. A Beautiful Mind. Go figure.

“Having fun?” he asks.

Castiel jumps at the interruption, closing the book. “Sam gave it to me,” he says defensively.

Sam looks up, eyebrows raised. Dean speaks before his brother can make a comment that’s supposed to put the angel at ease but will probably only serve to make everyone uncomfortable. “’Course he did, he’s a nerd. Wanna check out the abridged version?”

“It’s a totally different experience,” Sam complains, “reading the book from watching the movie.”

“Yeah, watching the movie is quicker.” He turns back to the angel. “Come on, let’s go. I’m pretty sure it’s on Netflix.”

Castiel stands up and follows him into the hallway.

“Sit on the chairs, not on my bed!” Sam yells after them.

“The only modern television is in Sam’s room,” Dean explains to Castiel. “For now, at least.” Just then, his stomach rumbles, reminding him he only had a cup of coffee for breakfast. “Go get us some snacks, I’ll get the movie started.”

He heads to Sam’s room while Castiel goes to the kitchen. After spreading the covers over the unmade bed (because he’s _not_ sitting on his brother’s dirty sheets, and he’s _not_ sitting on a wooden chair to watch Netflix) he navigates the options on the TV until the movie is ready. Then Castiel comes in and places his chosen snacks on the desk – a jar of pickles and last night’s leftover burger buns.

“What the hell is this?”

“What you demanded. Snacks.” He’s not even cracking a smirk. He’s actually serious.

“These aren’t movie snacks.”

Castiel crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m not an expert in humanity’s movie-watching habits. Perhaps you should have been more specific with your order. Or better yet, get your own snacks yourself.”

Dean doesn’t have the energy for this right now. “You know what? Blow me.” He turns to get the remote and when he turns back, Castiel is all up in his personal space, dropping to his knees and reaching out to unclasp Dean’s belt. “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” He grabs the angel’s wrists and pushes them away. “Stop!”

Castiel looks up, locking eyes with Dean. His face is completely blank. There’s no squinting, no head-tilting, nothing.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“You ordered me to blow you.”

Dean blinks. “I didn’t-- I--” He closes his eyes for a moment and starts again. “I didn’t mean it literally. It’s just a phrase, something people say. It doesn’t mean you have to do... this.”

Castiel’s expression changes, but Dean still can’t read it. “I’m not yet acquainted with all the different turns of phrase humans employ.” He stands up, which brings his face inches from Dean’s. Dean steps back.

“I thought you didn’t want to... you know...” He gestures vaguely at the space between them.

“I am compelled to follow orders from my owner,” Castiel says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Dean stares.

Compelled? What does that even mean? Compelled how? But all these questions die in his throat. His mind helpfully supplies HD replays of all the times he asked something of Castiel, all the times he suggested something, big or small it didn’t matter, and how the angel sometimes argued every word out of Dean’s mouth, and sometimes did what Dean asked without even a hint of hesitance, and every time it puzzled Dean to the point of annoyance because he just couldn’t figure out what made Castiel tick.

Compelled.

To follow orders.

From his owner.

“Me and Sam?” he asks.

“You alone imprinted your essence on the sigil.”

So that’s how. The collar. The device clearly has a much more extended use than Dean originally believed. Bela said it keeps the slave under control. Dean just figured it was meant to prevent Castiel from harming his owner, but of course it would also serve this kind of purpose. After all, why would you want a slave if it’s not for them to do your bidding? House chores, factory work, combat... among other things Dean doesn’t want to think about.

But Dean has no interest in a slave. To him, Castiel is merely the means to get back the money he is owed. He wants Castiel to behave until Sam can find a buyer, yes, but he doesn’t want him _compelled_. That’s just not right. Hell, it’s probably not even legal, but it’s not like a freaking angel can file a report with the Board of Fair Slave Treatment.

Dean will have to be more careful now that he knows how this whole thing works. He gets no kicks out of forcing people in any way. Castiel might not be as helpful or as respectful as Dean would prefer, but Sam is right, the angel is here against his will. The least Dean can do is try to keep from taking even more of his will away. 

He realizes he’s been staring at Castiel this whole time, and Castiel has been staring back. “Let’s just watch the movie,” he says, grabbing the weird snacks the angel brought and sitting on his brother’s bed. He pats the empty space next to him, a stretch large enough that Castiel can sit a respectful distance away. “Sit here, it’s more comfortable.” 

Castiel approaches the bed and sits down, ass on the pillow and back ramrod straight against the headboard. He turns his eyes to the TV and stays stock-still.

It downs on Dean then that he phrased it as an order. 

“Sorry, I meant you could sit here if you wanted. You can sit wherever you want. Here or on one of the chairs. Or on the floor, I guess.” Castiel turns to look at him, eyes squinting, and Dean realizes he’s babbling. Without another word, he leaves the jar of pickles and the bag of buns on the comforter between them and presses play on the remote. 

Dean’s already seen this movie, so only half of his attention is on it now. The rest is on the angel next to him, the way his body relaxes a little five minutes into the film, how he blinks more often when the screen lights up brighter. He seems completely engrossed in the story playing out on the TV, not even once turning his eyes to Dean. Which is just as good, because Dean doesn’t want to get caught staring. He gets a bun from the bag and nibbles on it distractedly, leaving crumbs all over his brother’s bed. He’s watching a completely different movie, comprised of colored lights casting dancing shadows over an angel’s face.

When the credits roll, he stretches his back and grabs the remaining ‘snacks’ before standing up. “You didn’t eat anything.” 

“I don’t require nourishment.” 

“You ate three burgers last night.”

Castiel bows his head until his eyes are our of Dean’s sight. “I enjoy some types of food,” he says quietly, like it’s a confession. 

“Burgers,” Dean notes, nodding in approval. “You’re a man after my own heart, Cas.”

“I’m not a man.”

“Well, you know what I mean. I guess.”


	9. Chapter 9

Dean jolts awake. He wasn’t dreaming, he thinks, and the bunker is quiet, so he’s not sure what woke him. He’s parched, though. He pats the nightstand for the light switch and turns it on. 

The lightbulb blinks. 

Grabbing his gun from under the pillow, he jumps out of bed and opens the door. The permanent lights in the hallway are blinking and buzzing, too. His toes curl against the cold tiles of the floor. There’s an eerie kind of static in the air, nothing he’s ever felt before, not even around ghosts or demons. He moves quietly but quickly down the hallway, going straight for Sam’s room. On the way he passes room number fifteen and remembers there’s someone else he needs to protect as well. 

He knocks loudly on the door intending to move on to Sam’s room immediately and let Castiel follow him when he gets up, but the lights stop blinking. The feeling of static crawling over his skin vanishes. Everything looks and feels normal, except Dean’s heart, which is beating fast as a hummingbird’s and ringing in his ears. 

“Cas?” he calls. 

There’s no answer, which is normal for Castiel, but the adrenaline coursing through Dean’s veins makes him _need_ to make sure the angel is fine, so he turns the knob and pushes the door halfway open. 

Castiel is sitting on the bed, sheets tangled around his waist, torso naked and heaving with panting breaths. His skin glistens in the light coming from the hallway and his eyes are impossibly wide as he turns his face toward Dean. 

“Are you okay?” Dean asks, stepping over the threshold. 

Castiel’s only reply is to turn his face away. His fingers sink into the sheets around him like claws. 

With slow steps, Dean walks over to the bed and sits down on the mattress. “It’s okay, buddy. Just a nightmare. You can go back to sleep.”

“I didn’t use to need sleep,” Castiel confesses, voice hoarser than usual. He uses a corner of the sheet to wipe the sweat beading on his forehead. “Didn’t use to sweat, either.”

Dean watches him close his eyes, breathe in deep, part his lips on the exhale. He looks wrecked. 

“Dreaming is the worst, by far,” Castiel adds. 

Dean’s mind supplies images of all his best dreams, the ones where he scores with the hottest girl in the entire bar, or bakes a three-decker cake, or goes skinny dipping with Sam at a Caribbean beach, and wonders if Castiel ever has that kind of dreams. He didn’t use to need sleep, he said. But he sleeps now. And sweats. And dreams.

“Is it the collar?”

Castiel nods once, slowly. “Over time it has begun to take its toll on me.”

There’s a million questions Dean wants to ask, but he feels like maybe he’d be overstepping a boundary. He might even end up accidentally forcing Castiel to speak of things he doesn’t want to share, if he’s not careful enough. But Castiel, stubborn, reserved Castiel, who always tries his damnedest not to show any vulnerability, is breaking apart at the seams right in front of Dean’s eyes. 

“I have nightmares, too,” he offers. He figures that if he wants Castiel to open up, perhaps he himself should do it first. “About you, lately.”

Castiel looks up at that, earnest, unguarded. “I will never hurt your brother, Dean.”

Dean grimaces. He didn’t realize he had been projecting his fears so clearly. “Am I that obvious?” 

“I heard your prayer when you were in Belle Plains.”

Dean frowns, puzzled, but then it hits him. In Nicky’s house, when he was face to double-face with that monster, he was afraid he’d be unable to protect his brother from Castiel if he died, and he prayed. With his eyes and his lips closed, not even realizing that he was doing it, he _prayed_. 

And Castiel heard him. 

He can’t wrap his mind around it. He needs to get out, to be away from Castiel right now. Needs to forget about the whole thing. The praying, the collar, the entire fact that he owns an angel slave. 

“Go back to sleep,” he says, bolting to the hallway and closing the door behind him, a barrier between him and all the things he doesn’t want to think about. 

He goes straight to the kitchen, not bothering to go back to his room for shoes or even socks, and grabs a beer from the fridge, downing it in only a few gulps. The liquid cools his parched throat but doesn’t sate his thirst, so he opens another bottle. 

  


***

  


The sound of steps in the hallway wakes Dean up. He’s sprawled half on the chair and half on the kitchen table, neck so stiff he can barely lift his head. The steps (clearly Sam’s – he would recognize them anywhere) retreat, growing silent, and then he hears the heavy entrance door opening and closing. Sam’s out for his morning run. Must be six a.m.

He goes to his room to rinse the sour taste off his mouth and put on a pair of shoes on his frozen feet. Castiel’s door is still closed. The entire bunker feels deader than usual. He hates being awake at this hour. His stomach rolls as he bends down to tie his shoelaces, which gives him an idea to pass the time. Nothing like a healthy dose of grease to calm a queasy stomach. 

By the time Sam comes back, sweat pouring down his face like his entire head is melting, Dean is finishing the scrambled eggs. On the table there’s pancakes, bacon, fresh orange juice from actual oranges that Dean squeezed himself, and even an apple for Sam. The coffee is piping hot, still in the pot. 

“What’s the occasion?” Sam asks. 

“Do I need one? I woke up early and I was hungry, there’s your occasion. You should be thankful I’m sharing.”

Sam grins, tossing the apple into the air and catching it back. “Nice.” 

“You stink, Sam. Go shower. Sixty seconds, army style. The eggs are almost done. Chop chop!” He turns back to the pan and adds salt, stirring. “And get Cas.”

“Oh, it’s _Cas_ now?”

“He doesn’t mind,” Dean says, pointedly not looking up from the stove. 

“Who knows, there’s no telling with him. But Dean, don’t get attached, okay?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Just... don’t become friends. Finding a buyer may be harder now, but eventually one is bound to show up.”

Dean’s grip tightens around the spatula. “You just wasted twenty precious seconds of shower time, Sam.”

Five minutes later, they are all seated at the table. Sam is still sweating, but at least he smells like soap now. He’s sipping orange juice and typing on his phone. Dean pours two mugs of coffee and passes one to Castiel. The angel has pillow wrinkles all over his left cheek and his hair is sticking up even more than it was last night. 

“Help yourself,” Dean tells him, gesturing at the array of dishes on the table. “I know you don’t need food, but bacon is heavenly. Go on, try it.”

“There is no bacon in heaven,” Castiel says as he grabs a piece with his fingers and puts it in his mouth.

“Good thing I’m going to hell, then,” Dean says without thinking, watching him chew.

Castiel looks up at that, eyes locking with Dean’s. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.

“Well?” Dean prompts. “What do you think?”

“I don’t think you’re going to hell.”

Dean frowns. “I meant the bacon.”

“Oh. It’s good.”

“Hah! See? There’s hope for you yet.” He looks at Sam just in time to catch him turning back to his phone, pretending he wasn’t staring. Dean rolls his eyes and stuffs a forkful of bacon in his mouth. 

They eat in silence until all the food is gone. Admittedly, Dean consumes the majority of it, scarfing down distractedly as he watches Castiel nibble on a few more pieces of bacon and fruitlessly attempt to lick the grease off his fingers, only managing to get them filthier. Dean makes a mental note to teach the poor guy how to use cutlery. 

“What are you guys doing today?” Sam asks, finally putting his phone down. 

“I’ve been thinking of making a supply run to Topeka,” Dean replies. 

“To the, ah, specialty store?”

“Yeah. We need to restock a few things. Don’t wanna get caught unprepared.” 

“Right. Well, I’m going to work on a translation. I found a book yesterday that looks promising. Old magic, I think. Can’t tell yet.”

Dean gets up and carries the dirty dishes to the sink. “You should be doing research on plumbing instead. And I mean actual plumbing,” he adds, “for your goddamned dishwasher. I wasn’t trying to politely suggest you should get laid--”

“Politely?”

“--though god knows you could use some of that, too.” He points at Sam’s crotch. “It will shrivel and fall off if you don’t get it wet once in a while.”

Sam’s bitchface tells Dean his joke hit right on target.

  


***

  


When Dean comes back from Topeka that afternoon, he finds Castiel reading another book in the library. There’s no title on the cover. 

“Hey. Where’s Sam?”

“In his room,” Castiel replies, not looking up.

“You reading again?”

 _That_ earns him a look. “Sam said--” But the angel cuts himself off.

“What? What did he say?”

Castiel presses his lips into a tight line.

Dean frowns. “I thought you didn’t have to do what Sam says, but if that’s the case I can talk to him.”

Castiel deflates at that. “There’s no need. He said I could pick any book from the library, if I wanted to read.” 

“Oh. Of course you can. Any you like. Just stay away from the ones in the storage rooms, most of those are cursed.”

Sam comes in then, book in hand and laptop under his arm. “Hey. How did it go?”

“Got a few things. We might have to eat ramen for the rest of the month, but at least we can take on a nest of vampires now. Watcha doing?”

“Just... using the computer,” Sam says, shrugging. 

“Porn?” Dean teases him. 

“Ha, ha. No. Just some stuff I wanted to do.”

“Skyping with Eileen,” Dean concludes. It makes Sam flush all the way to the tips of his ears. Dean smirks and turns to Castiel. “He was. See how red he got? Like a virgin in a whorehouse.”

Castiel looks at Sam, then back at Dean. “Romantic relationships are important to humans,” he says matter-of-factly, like the issue of Sam having a girlfriend is not really a relevant one.

“It’s not romantic!” Sam complains. “I just wanted to ask her something about the translation. It was giving me a hard time.”

“And did she help you out with your... hard... time?” Dean asks, wiggling his eyebrows.

“ _No._ I’m still stuck.”

“Too bad. If you want to score with this chick, you gotta translate the book. That’ll impress her. I mean, she’s kind of a nerd like you, isn’t she?”

“Sh-she’s not-- I don’t--”

“Maybe you should ask Cas here. He’s a nerd, too, apparently.” He reaches over and pats the book in the angel’s hands.

“Oh, right,” Sam replies, rolling his eyes. “I guess you speak Akkadian, Cas?”

“Most dialects.” 

Sam’s jaw drops. It’s very unflattering. “Seriously? That’s... Wow. Uh, would you mind helping me with this?” He pulls out a chair and sits down, flipping the book open. “I managed to translate some key words from what I figured is the index, and it seems really interesting, but I couldn’t get any further than that. There’s just so little on this language online, and nothing in the bunker archives.” He flips a few more pages, displaying colorful post-it notes sticking out from the margins.

Castiel stands up and goes sit next to him, sliding his fingers over the old paper. “The ink is very faint. It will be difficult to distinguish the number of strokes on some of these syllables.” 

“However much you can help is fine. I really appreciate it.”

“The exact words can be derived from context. Most of the text remains in very good condition. I believe the book can be translated in its entirety.”

“I’ll leave you guys to it,” Dean says. 

Sam and Cas don’t even notice him leaving.


	10. Chapter 10

“The secret to a good Marinara sauce, Cas, is to add more garlic than what you think is enough. Trust me, it’s _not_ enough.” Dean holds the chopping board over the pan and scrapes the garlic off with a knife. Castiel’s eyes follow Dean’s every move like he’s memorizing them. “And of course,” Dean adds, taking out a half-empty bottle of cheap white wine from the fridge and holding it up for Cas to see, “the secret ingredient. Just a dash, no need to get too excited.” 

“You cook a lot,” Cas comments.

Dean shrugs. “I like homemade meals and Sam has the cooking skills of a Beverly Hills wife.”

“He made sandwiches when you were in Belle Plains.”

“My point exactly.” He fishes a strand of spaghetti from the pot and blows on it. “I think the pasta is done. Wanna try?” He hold out the fork with the spaghetti dangling from it. 

Castiel walks up to him and slurps the pasta directly from the proffered fork. “It’s done,” is his verdict. 

Dean drains the pasta over the sink and pours it into the sauce simmering in the pan, trying not to think about the fact that he just fed his slave in the mouth like a goddamned toddler.

“You’re a very good cook,” Cas says out of the blue.

Dean thinks that’s an overly generous compliment for someone who is making basic pasta. “I bet you say that to all your owners,” he jokes. 

“No.”

Dean can feel himself blushing, so he pretends to focus on stirring the spaghetti into the sauce. “I mean, sure, compared to my brother, I’m like a five Michelin stars chef. I had to forbid him from using my kitchen unsupervised, at least for anything more complex than making a sandwich or setting up the coffee machine. Put my foot down when he burned a permanent sticky mess into the bottom of the oven.” He opens the oven door and lets Cas peer inside. “See?”

“That is very unfortunate,” Cas says, assessing the damage.

“Tell me about it. Hey, speaking of unfortunate, go get Sam, will you? Food’s ready.” As the angel turns to leave, Dean remembers to add, “If you want, of course.” 

Castiel goes anyway.

It’s past ten p.m. by the time they finish eating. Cas barely touches his plate, but Sam and Dean more than make up for that, and it shows when they lean back in their chairs and take deep breaths after they are done, waiting for the meal to go down. Dean even has to pop open the top button of his jeans. Eventually they get up, and Dean clears the table and puts away Cas’ leftovers while Sam starts doing the dishes.

“How may I help?” Cas asks.

Both Dean and Sam pause at that. Dean hurries to answer before his brother can make any awkward comments. “You can dry the dishes, if you want. Just grab a clean towel from the bottom drawer.”

It takes Dean a lot longer than usual to finish clearing the table. He can’t stop staring at the scene unfolding by the sink – his brother handing clean dishes to the angel standing next to him, and said angel drying them off with the same look of concentration on his face that he wears when he’s reading, looking for all intents and purposes like an average human. Well, maybe not so average, but definitely human. It’s surreal. 

“Wanna watch an episode of Dr. Sexy after this?” he says when they are almost finished. “I’m like half a season behind.”

“I don’t like that show,” Sam replies.

“That’s ‘cause you’re lame. And anyway, I wasn’t talking to you. Cas?”

Castiel spreads the wet towel on the countertop for it to dry. “I would like that.”

“Awesome. I’ll take your laptop, Sam.”

“Don’t use it for porn afterward.”

“Sure, whatever you say.” 

“I’m serious, Dean, or I’m gonna change the password.”

“You wouldn’t!”

“Try me.”

“Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

Dean grins and grabs the laptop from the table before leaving, Cas trailing after him.

Once in Dean’s room, they settle on the bed, Cas with his back straight against the headboard and Dean sprawled over the pillows. He sets the computer on his lap, slightly turned toward Cas so they can both watch without screen glare. 

It’s a relatively boring episode, but Castiel makes no comment. Dean turns to watch the angel’s reaction when Dr. Sexy appears on the screen about ten minutes into the episode. “That’s him, that’s Dr. Sexy.”

“The series is named after him.”

“‘Course it is. Even after just one episode, you can’t help falling in love with him.” He’s so caught up watching Cas’ face that it takes a moment to register what he just implied. “I m-mean, with Dr. Sexy, the show. Not-- not the doctor himself.”

Castiel turns to look at him. “You are exclusively attracted to females,” he says. It’s not a question. 

“Um...” 

“That’s why you don’t want me sexually. Because the vessel that I’m currently constrained to is male.”

It’s said like a simple observation, not an accusation, but it implies so many different things and Dean likes none of them. “It’s not that. I mean, I am, uh, mostly heterosexual, in general, sure, but that isn’t-- it’s not--” He winces. He’s saying things he doesn’t want to and not saying the things he actually has to. On the laptop screen, Dr. Sexy frowns disapprovingly. Dean taps the spacebar to pause the video and pushes himself upright. He needs to choose his words carefully if he wants to make sure Cas understands that Dean won’t try anything inappropriate on him, without giving away that Cas’ appearance is most definitely not the reason why. “Cas, I will never do anything like that to you. With the way things are, I would be taking advantage of you, and I don’t want to do that. Do you understand?”

“You are not completely heterosexual?”

It figures the angel would fixate on the one thing Dean had hoped would go unnoticed. Dean opens his mouth to deflect, but right here on his bed with Cas he finds himself reluctant to lie, so instead he just taps the spacebar on the laptop and lets Dr. Sexy fill the awkward silence.

  


***

  


The next time Dean walks into the library to find Castiel reading, the angel is wearing his old pants from when Dean first met him, and nothing else. 

“What’s with the wardrobe throwback?”

Castiel looks up. “If you are referring to the absence of the clothes you gave me, Sam said it was time to put them in the laundry basket because he’ll be doing a load later today. I think he meant he will wash them.” 

Right. Cas looked and smelled okay so Dean never thought about giving him some more hand-me-downs, but Sam is right, one single outfit worn for this long is beyond even Dean’s ridiculously low standards. Jeez, he gave the guy only one pair of underwear. “I’ll see if I can find you anything else. At least a t-shirt.” He turns around and almost runs into Sam. 

“Or,” his brother says pointedly, “we could buy him some clothes of his own. Something that actually fits, maybe? Since, you know, he might be staying with us for a while.”

“Right.”

“You could go now.”

“Go where?”

“Shopping, Dean!”

“Why do _I_ have to do it?”

His brother just gives him a look. Dean knows why, Sam knows why, and they both know the other knows. Castiel is Dean’s responsibility. 

  


***

  


When they reach the store, Dean directs them to the section labelled ‘Men’. Sam is right, Castiel does need new clothes. He’s once again wearing the outfit Dean gave him, this time clean, but it’s very ill-fitting on him. The hems of the too-long sweatpants are all torn up from stepping on them, the t-shirt is depressingly discolored and big enough to fit both him and Dean inside, and the sneakers are literally coming apart at the seams. Coupled with Cas’ permanently disheveled hair and the unkempt stubble he’s grown over the past few days, it makes the angel look... well, homeless. Dean wonders if Cas has a home, if there’s a family waiting for him somewhere. 

They reach the sitting area and Dean plops down onto the cleanest-looking ottoman. “Go pick some basics, I’ll wait here,” he says, then takes out his phone to see if he can connect to the store’s Wi-Fi.

Half an hour later, Castiel hasn’t come back.

Dean’s mind helpfully supplies the image of the leash still in Baby’s glove compartment and he realizes he’s made a huge mistake. He feels like a bigger idiot than when he accepted a slave as payment for a job. How could he have let his money wander alone? Let it escape like this?

As he runs toward the escalator, a glimpse of messy dark hair catches his eye. Castiel is standing in the middle of an aisle conveniently labeled ‘Basics’ amid shelves piled with two-dollar t-shirts. Dean gulps a few breaths to get his heartbeat back to relatively normal levels before walking up to him.

“What the hell, Cas?” He gestures wildly at nothing in particular. “I thought you had run off!”

Cas frowns, calm as ever. “Of course I didn’t run off, Dean.”

The ‘duh’ tone of his voice is not what Dean expected. Why does Cas think it’s obvious he won’t escape? Does he actually _like_ being a slave? Dean supposes there are worse fates than having a roof over your head and food in your belly—not that Cas needs food, anyway—in exchange for your freedom, but he can’t conceive the possibility that anyone, human or not, would settle for that. Yet here Cas is. “What’s taking you so long, then?”

“I’m not sure what to do.”

“What do you mean? Just pick whatever you need.”

Cas nods, but stays where he is.

It occurs to Dean that this might very well be the angel’s first time doing this. They probably don’t have department stores in heaven or wherever he comes from, and personal shopping is a luxury Dean doubts many owners allow their slaves. Hell, he didn’t allow it either until Sam called him out on it. “How about a pair of jeans? Something a little more... respectable than those sweatpants.”

Cas looks down at his pants. “These are yours.” 

“Yeah, but they’re indoor wear. Little more than pajamas.” The tilt of Cas’ head makes Dean smile. “Come on, jeans are this way.”

They end up picking a pair of cheap denim pants, a couple of plain t-shirts and a pair of ten-dollar sneakers that should last at least a month (Dean hopes they can find a buyer way before that). Cas tries the pants on in the fitting room and declares them size-appropriate. On their way to the checkout lanes, Dean grabs a 3-for-3-dollars pack of underwear and a couple pairs of socks. 

“Hey, you didn’t pick anything out yourself,” Dean points out as they get in line. “What would you like?”

“This is more than sufficient, Dean.” 

“Yeah, but it’s kinda...” he holds up one of the plain black t-shirts and frowns at it “...nondescript. Come on, Cas, pick something you like, anything you want. Under ten dollars.”

Cas looks rather alarmed.

“Okay, fifteen dollars! Just make it quick or we’ll lose our place in the line. Go!”

The angels scurries away and comes back in little over thirty seconds. He holds out a tan trenchcoat without meeting Dean’s eyes. Big red ‘clearance’ tags hang from each lapel. 

“This?” Dean asks, letting his thoughts on the garment permeate the word. He reaches out and runs a hand over the fabric. “It’s not even waterproof.”

Cas wordlessly turns around and hangs the coat on a nearby rack. 

The line moves forward. 

Just before it’s their turn, Dean rolls his eyes, mutters a halfhearted curse and goes back to grab the goddamned trenchcoat.

  


***

  


“So. Do you actually like being a slave, or what?” Dean asks once they are back on the road, aiming for a casual tone even though his knuckles are almost white around the wheel. It’s maybe not the most delicate way to pose the question, but he’s never been good with words.

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Cas’ face hardening. “No.”

“Right. Of course. But then, why don’t you just... leave?”

Cas turns to him and Dean can feel the angel’s gaze boring into the side of his face, searching for god knows what. “I can’t,” he says eventually, voice low.

“Is it... is it because of the collar?”

“It compels me to stay close to my owner unless I receive a direct order to go somewhere else.”

There’s that word again. Compel. Dean’s not sure how the collar achieves that, but it can apparently override Cas’ free will. It must be terrifying. “Why don’t you take it off? I mean, it doesn’t have a clasp, I can see that, but surely you can cut it open?” 

“I tried. I tried many things, but it’s no use. The device is bound by a blood spell.” 

Blood magic. That’s some very dangerous business that neither Dean nor Sam have ever attempted to mess with. “Can it be broken? The spell, I mean.”

Cas is silent for a moment. “It can,” he says eventually. “Like any spell. But only the one who first bound me can do it.”

“What if you buy the angel instead of binding them yourself, how do you free them then?” He casts around for a joke in an attempt to lighten up the conversation. “Podracing?”

Cas tilts his head, and that lifts a tiny portion of the weight crushing Dean’s heart. “I don’t understand that reference. But to answer your question, you don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Free a collared angel.” 

Dean frowns. “No, that can’t be right. There’s gotta be a way.”

“I suppose as an owner you could ask your slave to leave,” Cas says. He’s speaking slowly, as if measuring his words. 

“Like, order them free?”

“Not free, just away from you. Leave you alone, if that’s what you desire.”

“Away from the person who can control them with a word. It’s pretty much the same, isn’t it?”

“Until the next greedy human comes and decides to take advantage of the fact that I am practically powerless.” 

Oh. Dean can see it. An angel slave is extremely valuable, not to mention completely off the grid from the law, unlike human slaves. All it takes is one person who can identify him as a supernatural creature. Best case scenario, he gets killed. Worst case scenario...

If this truly doesn’t pan out, if Sam can’t find a buyer for Cas, Dean’s not going to keep him a prisoner forever, is he? That’s not an option.

He’s going to have to look into it, see if he can find another way to remove the collar. Just in case.


	11. Chapter 11

_“Try not to move.”_

_Dean holds the chainsaw on the table with one hand and yanks on the starter rope with the other until the engine fires._

_“Dean, please...” Castiel is holding up both hands in front of him. His eyes are wide and fixed on the chainsaw._

_“It’ll be quick, Cas. Painless. Just make sure you hold very, very still, okay?” He picks up the saw and advances. Castiel takes one step back for each Dean takes forward._

_“Dean--” he jumps when his back hits the wall. “--you don’t have to do this.”_

_But Dean does. He needs to get that collar off him, doesn’t Cas see? And this is the only way._

_“Please...” Cas flattens himself against the wall, eyes screwed shut._

_“Don't move.” Dean reaches out to tilt the angel’s chin up, making more room. “Don’t even breathe.”_

_“Dean!”_

Dean bolts upright, hands flailing in the dark as the weight of the saw fades away. There’s a rapping sound coming from somewhere, but he can barely hear it over the blood rushing in his ears.

“Dean!”

It’s Sam. Sam is knocking on the door.

“It’s noon, Dean! Are you even alive in there?”

He throws the covers off and bolts out of bed, the air cool on his sweltering skin.

The rapping becomes pounding. “Dean!”

“What?!” he snaps, throwing the door open.

Sam is standing in the hallway, bitchface on, ready to tear Dean a new one for making him think he had died in his sleep or something, but his brother’s face falls as he takes in Dean’s appearance. “You okay?”

Dean runs a hand through his hair. It comes off wet with sweat. “Yeah. Stayed up late last night.” _Staring at the ceiling and thinking of Cas,_ he doesn’t add.

“Need a few more hours?”

“Nah, I was just about to get up. I need a shower.”

“Yeah, you do. There’s coffee you can heat up and I left toast on the countertop if you want some.”

“Thanks, but I’ll pass on your piece of coal.”

  


***

  


Dean’s ass is flat after six hours of non-stop research. The library chairs are unforgiving and Cas is using the only armchair they’ve got. He’s figured out which spell is on the collar, and he’s figured out which book it’s in, but the book is not in the Men of Letters archives according to the index Sam painstakingly put together in a spreadsheet. Dean hates spreadsheets. 

He makes a few discreet enquires online, hoping at least one of the not-quite-reputable people he emails will have the book or at least know where he can find it. 

His back feels like it’s permanently bent at a 90-degree angle and glued to the chair to boot, so he delays actually attempting to get up by playing a couple of rounds of Solitaire on the computer. It fails to hold his attention for long. Instead, he finds his gaze wandering toward the only other object of interest in the room. Cas is curled up inside his new trenchcoat, knees to his chest and bare feet perched on the edge of the armchair. His eyes dance along the page in front of him as he reads, and there’s a little frown between his eyebrows that reveals the words are affecting him on some level. He looks much tidier now that Dean’s taken him to the barber’s for a haircut and bought him shaving supplies. Teaching a grown man how to shave had been a surreal experience, nothing like the time he did the same for Sam once the kid started growing something more substantial than peach fuzz. But Cas is not a man. 

As Dean watches, the angel’s hand dips into the bag of chips wedged between him and the armrest. He lifts a chip to his mouth, eyes never leaving the book, and parts his lips to nibble on the snack, crumbs falling onto his lap. When his tongue darts out to lick the salt from his lips, Dean finds himself instinctively mimicking the motion.

“I’m going out, don’t wait up.”

Dean is startled out of his reverie by his brother’s announcement. Sam crosses the library in a tight pair of dark jeans and his FBI shirt, keys dangling from his hand. “You’re going out without me?” Dean asks.

Sam shrugs.

“Wait a second... are you going out _on a date?_ ”

Sam shrugs again, but a dark flush is rising up his neck. “Eileen and I get along great and I want to spend time with her in the actual flesh, doing something different than talking about work.”

“In the actual flesh. I get you.” He adds a wink for effect. It makes his brother flush harder. “No shame in that, Sammy.”

Sam looks like he’s about to burst a blood vessel. “This is serious, Dean. And you know what? You, too, should go out and find someone. Maybe that’ll help with your _moods_.”

And with that, Sam disappears into the War Room, a loud clanking sound echoing through the bunker as he jogs up the metallic stairs.

Dean turns to Cas, frowning. “Can you believe that guy? Gets bitten by the love bug and immediately goes all self-righteous on my ass.”

Cas, who had been watching Dean and Sam’s conversation, shrugs. 

“He really does like her, though,” Dean muses. “Did you see what he was wearing?”

“Was the outfit not appropriate? I am not very knowledgeable in human attire in general--”

“Clearly.”

“--but Sam requested my help this morning picking out what to wear, regardless.”

Whoa, whoa, whoa. “He what?”

Cas adopts a pensive look. “He said he wanted to look good but not like he was trying too hard. I am not entirely sure what he meant by that, so I simply picked the clothes that I thought made him look the most physically appealing.”

Dean splutters. “ _What?_ ” 

Cas turns his eyes toward him again. He looks cautious. 

Dean shakes his head clear. “Whatever. I need something to help me forget the mental image of my brother being with this chick _in the actual flesh_.” He fakes a shudder. “Burgers will do the trick. There’s fresh meat and buns and there’s bound to be some sort of cheese somewhere in this godforsaken hole in the ground. What do you say?”

“I enjoy burgers.”

Dean smiles. “Yeah. And later we can catch something on Netflix, or just chill around, whatever you want.”

“Netflix is fine, but I’m not sure about chilling.”

Dean immediately backtracks. “No, no, no! Not Netflix and chill, just Netflix! No chilling!”

“Good. Because the current temperature of my vessel is optimal already.”

  


***

  


It’s way past midnight when Dean’s phone pings. It’s not a message from Sam, though. It’s an email from one of the ‘good Samaritans’ he contacted earlier, containing four attachments and a short note indicating that Dean is now in their debt. Dean opens the files; they are photos of the book describing the spell in full – its purpose, all required ingredients, the entire procedure itself and, thank god, the counter-spell to reverse it. Well worth the debt. He leaves Cas in Sam’s room (the angel barely notices, engrossed as he is in a painfully predictable Nicholas Cage flick) and goes to the library for some privacy. He sits down in Cas’ armchair and reads through the whole thing.

It is indeed a blood spell, a very complicated one performed with the blood of the angel’s human vessel. It transforms the binds, typically a collar or cuffs, into a device that confines the angel’s grace—the angel’s power, their full being—to the conveyed will of the person who imprints their essence on the item through direct contact with the sigil carved into it for that very purpose. It works by binding the magic to the grace, but the book is unfortunately hazy on the details of how exactly this is achieved or what the extended effects are. And, apparently, the only way to lift the spell is with the blood that was used to execute the original binding. Well, there is another way, but... 

No. He needs that blood.


	12. Chapter 12

“So get this,” Sam says, startling Dean out of his Solitaire game. He found an app two days ago and can now play on his phone – useful for when Sam is hogging the laptop. “Rock Springs in Wyoming is severed in two because the only bridge across Green River has been shut down since Monday. Six families set up camp in the middle of it to protest the lack of justice for their loved ones who died over the past two months under—I quote—mysterious circumstances. They claim the local police are purposefully delaying the investigations.”

“Mysterious circumstances?” Dean asks. Could be their kind of thing.

“Bled to death, but the blood is missing.”

Definitely their kind of thing. “Vampire? Chupacabra?”

“In Wyoming? I’m guessing vampire.”

“Rock Springs... That’s, uh, near Utah?”

“Yeah. Ten hours by interstate.”

“I can make it in eight.”

“Uh-uh. No. I’m taking this case, you’re staying.”

“Come on, Sam! You’re the one who should stay, I need you here for research support!”

“You mean babysitting. No. He’s _your_ slave, Dean. _You_ stay.”

Dean rakes his mind for another reason to convince Sam, but his brother makes a very good point. Dean is not Cas’ owner legally (of course not; Cas is an angel, not a human slave) but he is magically. Dean and Sam might be in this together whether his little brother wants to or not, but it’s Dean’s orders Cas is bound to obey. 

Dean is not staying behind to babysit, though. 

“This thing,” he starts, careful, “could be a whole nest. That’s a two-man job. I’m not letting you walk into this alone, Sammy. We’re both going.”

“And leave Cas here alone?” Sam’s face conveys exactly what he thinks of that plan, but Dean is not deterred.

“Of course not. We take him with us.”

“What?!” 

“The guy’s been toeing the line for weeks, don’t you think it’s time for parole? It’s not like he can run away, anyway.”

“Even if the leash did work as some sort of magical restraint, which I’m not sure is the case, are you really suggesting we can take on an entire nest of vampires while you hold on to it?” 

Dean had been hoping he could keep this little bit of information to himself, but it looks like he’s going to have to tell Sam. “It’s not the leash. It’s the collar. When Bela gave him to me, she had me touch this sigil on it that would complete the transfer. I didn’t know it at the time, but it turns out this transfer means the collar itself recognizes me as Cas’ owner and somehow... uh... compels him to... staywithmeanddowhatIsay.”

Sam stares at him.

“So we can take him with us,” Dean concludes. “He can’t run off, he’ll have to stay close to me or stay put wherever I tell him. And, well, if push comes to shove, I can give him an order and he’ll have to follow it. You know, just in case things get a little out of hand with him. Which they won’t.”

Sam keeps staring at him, face almost unreadable to Dean for the first time in their lives, but Dean can still tell that whatever his brother is thinking is definitely not something good. 

“Come on, Sammy. It’ll be safe.”

“You’re joking, right?”

  


***

  


The car’s windows are rolled down but Dean still feels like he’s going to choke. Or rather, be choked by Sam, whose face is dangerously blank. In the back seat, Castiel stares at the wheat fields, unaware of the impending apocalypse about to break out in the front. 

Dean needs a distraction right this instant. 

“Hey, Cas,” he says, looking at the angel in the rearview mirror until he returns Dean’s gaze. “I haven’t forgotten about the issue of your musical education.” He pulls out a tape from his pocket and holds it up for Cas to see. “So I made this. It’s for you to keep. Thought we’d start with the basics. What do you say?” 

Cas, unsurprisingly, says nothing. 

Dean pops the tape into the player anyway. “It’s Led Zepp. Their top thirteen tracks according to me, and rest assured, I’m an expert.”

The opening chords of Achilles Last Stand begin playing through the speakers, wrapping over the tense silence until they smother it away.

By the tenth song, things are back to normal. Sam is draped over the seat with his knees jammed up against the dashboard, typing on his phone and smiling. They move on to Dean’s tapes next, until Sam’s stomach rumbles louder than the music, signaling it’s time for lunch. Dean gets off the interstate as they pass the Nebraska border and drives them to the nearest diner. 

Pine Bluffs Eatery surprises them with a scrumptious steak. Dean wants to lick the plate clean, but that would mean another two hours of frigid silence from Sam in the car, so he refrains. 

“Can I get you boys anything else?” the waitress asks. She looks about Dean’s age, with an unfortunate nose but a very, very fortunate ass. 

“I’m full, thanks,” Sam replies.

“How about you, honey?” she asks Cas, who didn’t order anything to eat, just asked for a glass of water. “Still not hungry?” 

Cas shakes his head.

“Do you have any pie?” Dean asks.

“Cherry and pecan.” 

“Cherry, please. A generous slice,” he says with a wink.

“I thought you said you’d make the trip in eight hours,” Sam notes when the waitress leaves.

“Rule number one of any job, Sammy – there’s always time for pie.”

The cherry pie is even better than the steak. Dean digs into it with abandon. The noises he makes are perhaps slightly inappropriate for a family establishment, but thankfully Sam is so engrossed in whatever he’s doing on his phone that he fails to notice. Cas, though, is staring at him with wide eyes, lips slightly parted.

“Want to try some?” Dean offers. 

Cas nods slowly, face frozen in that entranced expression. Dean cuts a piece and holds out the fork for him to take, but instead or reaching for it with his hand, Cas leans in, eyes still fixed on Dean, and wraps his lips around it. Just when Sam was looking up from his phone. 

Dean looks down at his plate and finishes the rest of the slice in three bites, barely tasting it, trying not to think about the fact that he’s eating off the same fork that Cas just touched with his freaking tongue.

  


***

  


“What newspaper did you say you were from?”

“Green River Star, ma’am,” Sam says, flicking his head to get the hair out of his eyes. “Our readers would really like to know more about this prosecution that you and the other families are pushing for. It’s our understanding that you consider the police to be, uh... slacking?” 

The woman’s eyes flick to Cas, who is standing beside the couch that Sam and Dean are sitting on. “At the very least. Six people are dead, and there are no leads whatsoever. This is not a big town, Mr. Woodward. How long can it take to find this murderer?” 

“You believe they are still in town? The murderer, I mean. Or murderers.” 

“Oh yes, definitely. That’s the worst part. Mrs. Doyle’s son was found yesterday, and there are three more people still missing. That means that the killer is still among us, and the police are clearly covering up for them. How many more of us have to die?”

“Let us hope no one else, ma’am.” Sam scribbles something on his notepad; Dean can see from his position that it’s just doodles. “We’ve been told the deaths were, um, out of the ordinary. I’m assuming you were called in to ID your nephew’s body, since you’re his next of kin?”

“Yes.” The woman’s expression turns darker. “There are no words to describe what I saw. I work at the E.R., so I’ve seen my share of dead bodies. God knows nothing can compare to seeing your brother’s son dead on a slab, but I’ve never... He was _drained_ , Mr. Woodward.”

“Drained?”

“All his blood, gone. He had these marks all over his body, like he had been stabbed repeatedly with... I don’t know. A needle? The cuts were very small. He could have been suffering for hours before-- before--”

“That’s all right, ma’am. Take your time.”

“Thank you. It’s been almost two months, but I still see his face every night in my dreams. Pale, empty...” She pulls her sleeve over her hand and wipes at the tears streaking down her face. The fabric comes away smeared with makeup. “And Sheriff Carney says there are no leads yet. They can’t even determine the murder weapon. Can you believe that?” 

“We’ll continue investigating and make sure to expose any irregularities we come across.”

“Thank you so much. Please make sure you write that we’re not abandoning the fight until this murderer and anyone who is protecting them are behind bars.”

“We will.”

  


***

  


Dean takes off his ‘borrowed’ medical robe as soon as they are alone behind the closed door of the morgue.

“Definitely vampire,” Sam says, poking at the holes in Brian Doyle’s corpse with a gloved finger. He slips the glove off with a snap and gives the report he’s holding a once-over. “Found yesterday, yeah, but the time of death is two days ago.” 

“They haven’t started the autopsy yet,” Dean observes, noticing the lack of a Y-cut on the body. “There’s something fishy here, all right.”

“Cas?” 

Dean looks up at Sam’s question to find Cas has slipped the sheet off another body and is— _ugh_ —sniffing it. “What the hell are you doing?”

“She’s a vampire,” Cas announces, straightening up. 

Sam walks up to the woman’s corpse and Dean follows. There’s a line of black stitches that goes all around her neck, clearly holding her severed head in place. While his brother is struggling to right the inside-out glove he just took off, Dean grabs a corner of the sheet and uses it to cover his fingers as he sticks them into the body’s mouth and presses down on the upper gums. Two sharp fangs descend. “You got that from a _whiff_?” he asks, turning back to Cas.

But Cas is looking back at Brian Doyle. “She’s not the one who bit this man, however.” 

“How can you tell?”

“Saliva,” Cas says simply. “He was bit by several individuals, but she is not one of them.”

“So it _is_ a nest,” Sam points out. 

“What happened to this one?” Dean asks, gesturing at the vampire. The question is only meant to prompt ideas, but Castiel answers it with unwavering certainty. 

“She was running from others of her species.”

“Okay, how can you tell _that_?”

“There are traces of saffron and trillium on her skin.”

“Scent blocker,” Sam says, nodding. “To conceal her smell from other vampires.” 

“So, what, vampire Goodfellas?” 

“I’d have to check the full list of victims, see if anything points to others being vamps, too. I don’t know how much I’ll be able to find, though, with the police disclosing so little information.” 

“They have an inside man. Check for any recent hires at the station.” Dean tries to put his robe back on, but he has trouble finding the sleeve hole. He’s distracted by the sight of Cas, eyes unnaturally blue in the harsh fluorescent light, one hand inside the pocket of his own white robe—which he donned over his trenchcoat—and the other pulling down the window blinds to stare out the window. “Cas?”

Cas lets go of the blinds and turns to look at Dean, silent as usual.

“How close do you have to get to someone to, uh, smell if they’re a vampire?”

“If they are alive, I can identify them visually.” 

That could come in handy, Dean thinks.

  


***

  


The most recent hire at the station is from over two years ago, so they decide to park the car across the street from the building right before closing time and have Cas watch everyone as they leave for the day so he can spot the vampire. Dean is sitting behind the wheel, nibbling on the loose skin around his fingernails, trying to remember if he phrased the request as a question or as an order. Sam didn’t say anything, but it’s possible he didn’t notice. 

“Relax, Dean,” Sam says. “No one’s paying us any mind.” 

“We’re too exposed,” Dean complains, pretending that’s the reason for his unease.

“They can’t suspect we’re onto them, not yet.”

“Right.” 

“Dean...” His brother trails off, distracted by the same thing Dean’s seeing. The Sheriff’s secretary is locking the door. She’s the last one out. 

“Cas?”

“They are all human.”

“Damn it. Okay, tomorrow is Sunday. Police stations are closed on Sundays, right?”

“No,” Sam replies. “There’s minimum staffing, but they’re open.”

“Justice never rests. Except when it comes to these murders, apparently.”

Sam pulls out his phone and jabs his thumb at the screen with baffling speed. “It’s the Sheriff’s day off, though,” he announces.

“It’s settled, then. Tomorrow we pay him a surprise home visit. Now, who’s hungry?”

  


***

  


“Totally dead,” Dean declares, finally giving up on the ancient A/C unit that’s crammed between Sam’s bed and the wall. The windows are open and the ceiling fan is on, but it’s not enough against the suffocating heat that the machine radiates. Both the switch and the temperature dial are unresponsive and there’s no external plug to pull. Dean is tempted to just tear a hole into the wall and cut the wires off, but he needs the deposit back. A drop of sweat trickles down his temple. He tugs on the hem of his t-shirt and wipes his face with it. 

“This place sucks,” Sam complains. He’s skipped the t-shirt altogether, lying on top of the covers in only his underwear. 

“Next time, you’re sleeping under a bridge.”

“The other motel couldn’t have been that much more expensive.”

“We’re paying for three now, Sam, in case you have forgotten.”

Sam turns his head away. “I’ll get us some money tomorrow.”

Dean sighs, deflating. “It’s fine. We can go together. There’s a bar about ten streets down.”

“Yeah, I saw it. Wednesday night... it’s gonna be a thin crowd.”

“But an easy one.” The stench of pizza in the air is nauseating after he’s had seven slices, and the heat is only making it worse. He decides to just do away with the t-shirt and peels it off his sweaty skin. He kinda wants to take his jeans off, too, but for some reason he’s feeling rather self-conscious. ‘Some reason’ clearly being the angel in the room. 

Said angel is sitting on the middle bed, fully dressed except for the trenchcoat. There’s a displeased expression on his face as he points the remote at the TV and flicks channels too fast for him to really be paying any attention to what’s on. As Dean watches, Cas’ other hand reaches up and jiggles the collar of his t-shirt, a gesture meant to cool him down. Unlike Dean or Sam, though, he’s not sweating. 

“It’s gonna be a long night, with this heat,” Dean says just to get Cas’ attention on him. 

“And nothing of interest on TV,” Cas adds, turning toward him. “I could take you up on your offer to watch Netflix and chill, now.”

Dean chokes, and by the coughing sounds coming from Sam’s bed, so does his brother. 

“That’s-- that’s not-- I didn’t--”

Sam gets up and busies himself with folding the empty pizza boxes to fit them in the trashcan. “Let’s just go to sleep. Each in his own bed, okay?”

_Jesus Christ._


	13. Chapter 13

There’s movement inside the Sheriff’s house. Dean, Sam and Cas sneak around the back to watch through a half-open curtain, crouching below the windowsill. Two people are arguing in the kitchen, Sheriff Carney and a much younger woman who looks exactly like a pocket version of him sans moustache. The Sheriff is not a particularly tall man, and she barely comes up to his shoulders. On tiptoes. 

Cas leans into him until his hair is tickling Dean’s temple. “She’s a vampire,” he whispers right into Dean’s ear. 

“What did you say?” his brother asks Cas.

“She’s a vampire,” Cas repeats. He’s still whispering, but he doesn’t lean into Sam the way he did with Dean. That might have something to do with the fact that Dean is crouching between them, of course, but it’s not what Dean would like to think and that’s worrying. He needs to focus. 

The argument playing out in front of them like a soap opera on mute eventually dies down. The woman grabs a purse from a chair and leaves through the front door. 

Dean tosses Sam the car keys. “Tail her, she might lead us to the nest. But don’t do anything on your own, okay? Cas and I will talk to Captain McCluskey here and meet you back at the motel.”

His brother sets off toward the street as Dean and Cas go around to the front door. Before Dean can ring the bell, though, Cas puts his hand on the doorknob and mojos it open. 

“I know I bit your head off last time for that,” Dean says, “but it’s actually a really cool trick.” The comment earns him an eyeroll. Castiel starts to go in, but Dean puts his hand against the doorframe, blocking him. “Stay here. It’s for your safety.”

“I can look after myself.”

“Hello?” a voice comes from inside.

“Damn it. Okay, just stay behind me.” He crowds Cas against the wall outside the entrance, effectively out of Carney’s view.

“Hailey?” the sheriff calls.

Mentally crossing his fingers that Carney isn’t armed, Dean thrusts his gun into the sheriff’s side as soon as the man pokes his head through the open door. “Why don’t you invite us in, Sheriff?”

Carney is smart enough not to shout or fight back. He lets Dean push him into the living room. Castiel follows after them and closes the door.

“No funny business,” Dean warns, giving the man one final shove so that he sits down on the couch. “We’re here about your vampire daughter.”

“I’ll talk to her, I will!” Carney practically shouts, sinking back into the couch and raising his hands in surrender. He knows what she is, then. “I’ll make her come round, just please don’t hurt her. Please.”

“That will depend on your answers,” Dean lies. “We know you’ve been covering up the nest’s murders to protect your daughter.”

Carney frowns in puzzlement, eyes flicking between Dean and Cas. “You’re... not one of them?”

Dean ignores the question. “It’s vampire against vampire out there and her life is on the line. We want to know why.”

“What do you mean, why?”

“Why does the rest of her nest want her dead? We can’t protect her if we don’t know what we’re dealing with.”

“You want to protect her? Who are you?”

“We want to prevent any more deaths, Sheriff. Your daughter might be next. So tell us, what’s going on?” 

“I... I...” The man looks around like a way out might suddenly appear, but he’s trapped between the couch and Dean’s gun. “It was only three of them when they first arrived, but then they turned some people. Hailey was the first one. She’s such a sweet girl, wouldn’t hurt a fly...”

“Wouldn’t hurt a fly, but human beings are fair game, huh?”

“It’s not her fault. She can’t help it.”

“Right.”

“And she’s so new at all this, she doesn’t really know what she’s doing. I keep telling her to be careful, to listen to the others who’ve been doing this for a long time, but it’s like she’s a teenager all over again. Thinks she can get away with anything.” 

“So she’s been on a rampant killing spree, leaving a trail of bodies that’s upsetting her makers?” 

“It’s... it’s not like that...” His face says it’s exactly like that.

“She’s not acting alone, though.”

“She’s with some of the others who were turned, all people from around town. When Mr Becker showed up dead, and then Hailey’s friend Alice, I knew it was only a matter of time before the rest of the nest decided to do away with the rebels. I’ve got these monsters breathing down my daughter’s neck, and all these families breathing down mine, and then my wife, who doesn’t know anything about this--”

“Where is the nest?”

“I don’t know.”

Dean cocks his gun.

“I don’t know! Hailey didn’t tell me and I didn’t ask, okay?” 

“Very convenient.”

“Of course it’s convenient! I’m having a hard time protecting her as it is. God forbid it, but there may come a time when I can’t do it anymore, and if that time comes, I’d better not have any information that could be used to hurt her.”

“She could be giving you information to help you catch these monsters, and instead you’re helping _them_ like some reverse Reservoir Dogs shit.”

“She’s my daughter,” Carney says, like that explains everything. 

And it does, doesn’t it? Hunting puts Dean and Sam at risk not only of death, but of worse fates, too. It’s Dean’s biggest, most secret fear – that one day such a fate might befall his brother, and Dean would have to hunt him. He doesn’t know if he actually could. 

“Why were you two arguing just now?” Dean asks. 

“She wants me to give her Alice’s belongings, the things she had on her when her body was found. I told her the guy we have at the evidence lockers is not exactly fond of me, to say the least.” He points to his chest where his badge would be if he were on duty. “Sheriff or not. Especially lately that I’ve had to, you know, bend the rules a little. Hailey wants me to fire him, but her wife is my wife’s boss.” He shrugs. “Rock Springs is a small town.”

Dean couldn’t care less. “Where are Hailey and her friends living now?”

“I told you, I don’t know where the nest is, she didn’t tell me.”

“But they are still living at the nest? Weren’t they on the run?”

“Alice was, I think. She was the most radical of the group. But it’s only a matter of time before they all decide they can do better than she was, be faster, smarter. My little girl is crazy smart, she is, but...”

“Sam might be back any moment, then. Let’s get going.” He gestures for Cas to follow him and heads toward the door, but a scraping sound stops him. He turns back, gun raised, just in time to catch Carney lunging at Castiel. He tries to aim at the moving target without putting Cas in danger, but Cas is faster. He swivels and lifts his leg in one graceful movement, landing a kick in the center of Carney’s chest and sending him flying across the room and against the empty fireplace like a freight train. The plaster crumbles at the collision and Carney slides to the floor, eyes closed. Dean hurries toward him and puts two fingers to his neck. There’s a pulse, thank god. 

He stands up and watches the unconscious body at his feet, but what he’s really seeing is a replay of that kick, the movement so fast it was almost like Cas hadn’t moved at all. The wall, the fireplace and Carney’s body are a mess from the inhuman force of the blow. 

They need to leave. Dean picks up the landline phone from the breakfast table and dials 911, leaving the line open so it can be tracked, then grabs Cas’ sleeve and leads him out into the street. Cas lets himself be pulled, doesn’t offer any resistance or try to break all of Dean’s ribs with one kick, which he clearly could, and Dean is tugging on the angel’s arm like he would on the leash-- 

But Cas doesn’t say anything, so Dean doesn’t either. They hurry down the street and up the road, setting a brisk pace toward the motel. After a few minutes, Dean notices he’s still holding on to Cas’ sleeve even though Cas is walking beside him now, so he lets go. They make the 30-minute walk in silence as dusk falls around them. An icy breeze starts blowing. Dean wraps his jacket tighter around himself and keeps his head down.

When they reach the motel, they find the Impala parked outside their room. Sam is inside, drinking water straight from the bathroom tap. The air conditioning is mercifully off. The room is rather chilly, but it feels like heaven after last night’s scorching hell.

“Hey,” Sam greets them, straightening up and wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “How’d it go?” 

Dean makes a vague noise that doesn’t really mean anything and throws his jacket onto the nearest bed. 

“I got us Chinese,” Sam says, “but I think it’s gone cold. Sorry.”

Dean notices three takeout boxes inside a plastic bag on the table, and promptly sets about unpacking them while Sam gets beers from the mini fridge. “Did half-sized Vampirella lead you to the nest?” 

“Yeah, after a short detour to the police station.”

“You stayed away, right?” 

“Yeah,” Sam replies, rolling his eyes. “The sun was about to set, anyway. Better to wait till morning.”

“So where is it?”

“Down an unpaved road south of Slide Belt Route. I didn’t drive all the way there just in case, but it’s a dead-end road that only leads to a farm.”

“Bingo.”

They sit at the table and start digging into their lukewarm food. Well, Sam and Dean do. Cas leaves his box untouched, instead opening a bottle of beer and wrapping his lips around it. He tilts it to let the cold liquid pour into his mouth, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.

“What did Carney have to say?” Sam asks, pulling Dean’s attention back to him.

“The woman you followed, Hailey, is his daughter.”

“I figured.”

“He said the vamps turned some people when they first came to town. Maybe they were chased out of some other town by hunters and were looking to rebuild their ranks. Anyway, some of these new vamps weren’t as careful when feeding, started calling attention to themselves. And the rest of the nest wasn’t too keen on that. The chick we saw at the morgue, she went rogue or something, so they killed her.” He stuffs a forkful of food into his mouth and keeps talking as he chews. “Hailey want’d her stuff, prolly why she went to th’ station.”

“Please, swallow,” Sam says, bitchface mode on. 

Dean gives him an open-mouthed grin instead, flashing the half-chewed chow mein inside. But then he catches Cas looking at him with a frown on his face, and his grin wanes. He finishes chewing and washes it down with beer before speaking again. “Anyway, there’s another vamp guy dead, too. The rest of the group is still living at the farm, though Carney thinks it won’t be long before they go rogue, too. We should take down the nest before it splits.” 

“It’s... what? Seven, eight vamps, at least?” 

“Maybe more. But we’ve got about a gallon of dead man’s blood in the trunk, maybe twenty syringes, the big ones. Should be enough.”

Sam pulls a small bag of something greenish from his pocket. It looks like crushed leaves. “Lifted this from Hailey as she was leaving the station. She did go get the other vamp’s things. This is the scent blocker Cas told us about at the morgue. If we burn it and rub the ashes on our clothes while they are still fresh, it should help us stay under the radar while we get into the nest.”

“Awesome. Then we kill everyone and go back to our home sweet home, where the A/C works and you freak can lick the bathroom tap without catching anything.”

“You told Carney you would keep his daughter safe,” Cas says. It hits Dean that the guy hasn’t spoken since he opened the door at Carney’s place.

“That was so he would speak to me,” Dean explains. 

“So you lied to him. You intend to kill her.”

“She’s a monster, Cas.” 

The angel holds Dean’s gaze for a moment, then looks away, busying himself with the beer. 

“I’m going out later,” Dean announces, eager to change the subject. “We need money. You coming, Sam?”

“Yeah, okay,” his brother replies. 

“Cas?” he asks, like the angel has a choice, too. 

Cas looks at him, but doesn’t answer. 

The rest of the meal passes in awkward silence.

  


***

  


Dean pretends to botch his fourth shot in a row, cue stick sliding over the top of the ball. “Oh, shoot.” He downs his glass of whisky and sways on his feet as he sets it down on the very edge of the table. When he lets go of it, the glass falls over and crashes on the floor. “Oh, _shoot_.” Beside him, Sam giggles. 

“You guys suck,” says the man with a moustache and goatee that’s playing against them. His partner, a buff guy who is almost as tall as Sam and wears a bright green Henley, leans over the table and easily pockets two balls in one shot.

“We do not,” Sam protests, dragging the words.

“You make the game boring,” Beard Guy insists. “That’s quite the feat.” Green Shirt pockets the last colored ball, and finally the eight ball.

“Nooo,” Dean wails. 

“Sorry,” Beard Guy shrugs.

“Okay, one last time. Third time’s the charm.” Dean grins wider than the situation warrants, exaggerating the gesture.

“I don’t think so.”

“’Cause you know we can beat you this time.”

“No. Because it’s boring.”

“Oh, come on! How about we make it more fun, then?” He pulls out two singles from his wallet and sets them on the table. “How about that?”

Green Shirt snorts, but it’s once again Beard Guy who speaks. “No, thanks.”

“Okay, okay.” Dean pulls all the bills from his wallet, amounting to a hundred and twenty seven dollars, and turns to Sam. “How much you got?”

Sam riffles through his own wallet. “Ninety,” he says, putting the bills on the table. 

The other guys are looking interested now. 

“That’s two hundred and... uh... I don’t know, you do the math,” Dean says with a dopey grin. “Is that fun enough?” 

And like that, they are in. The game starts running way more smoothly, with Sam and Dean standing fully upright now, eyes sharp, hands firm, no trace of their fake tipsiness. The other players are looking angrier by the minute. 

Castiel is sitting at a nearby round table, close enough to Sam and Dean that they can talk to him if they want. They don’t, and Castiel doesn’t, either. He’s watching the game and still sipping from the same bottle of beer that Dean ordered for him when they arrived an hour ago. There’s a group of women two tables down that keep staring at him and whispering among themselves, but Cas pays them no mind. Or maybe he hasn’t noticed.

On one of his routine glances to Cas’ table to check on him, Dean notices one of the women has walked up to him and sat down. Not on the chair, but rather on the table. She’s leaning close to him and talking, and Cas is looking up at her and replying whenever her lips stop moving. Dean botches his next shot on purpose so he can move to the other end of the pool table and hear what they are saying. It earns him a glare from Sam, but the game is going well enough that they can afford to pass one turn.

“...haven’t seen you around before,” the woman is saying. “I’m pretty sure I would remember. Where did you say you were from?”

“Heaven,” Cas says. It makes the woman giggle.

She reaches out and runs a single finger along Cas’ collar. The hairs at the back of Dean’s neck stand on end, even more so when he notices Cas’ expression hardening. He doesn’t push her away, though.

“What’s up with this?” she asks, caressing one edge of the metal, then the other. “You belong to someone?”

“Unfortunately.” Cas’ tone is like ice against Dean’s back. 

“Do you want to forget about that for a while?” She sneaks her finger under the metal and tugs a little. Dean wants to break her wrist. 

“It’s not like that,” Sam is saying behind him. 

“Like hell it isn’t,” Beard Guy growls in reply. 

Dean peels his eyes away from Cas just in time to watch Beard Guy giving Sam a warning shove. Sam’s ass bumps against the edge of the pool table. Green Shirt is moving, too, getting closer. Dean watches Sam’s face until his brother makes eye contact with him, and in that briefest of seconds they make the decision together – it’s time to leave. 

Dean walks up to Cas and wraps his hand around the guy’s bicep. “We need to get out of here, stat.” 

Cas looks up at him, then back at the woman. From the corner of his eye, Dean sees Sam grab the money from the table and sprint toward them, the other two men in pursuit.

“Cas, you hear me? Out, _now_.”

He sees a flash of tan as Cas stands up and swivels, both hands reaching out, trenchcoat billowing, and next thing Dean knows the world has gone cold and dark. Nausea rises up his chest and sparks go off at the edges of his vision, but the coldness and darkness coalesce around him into a dimly lit street under his feet and crisp night air against his skin.

“We are out,” Cas announces. 

Dean turns around. Sam is swaying on his feet beside him, but seemingly unharmed. The pub entrance is right in front of them, and through the fogged-up glass Dean spots two blurred figures turning in circles, scanning the room. 

“Let’s go before Iron Man and the Hulk catch up,” he says, pure instinct taking over because his brain is still offline. 

The three of them run toward the corner where the Impala is parked. Dean shoves the key in the ignition as soon as they get in, speeding off without letting his poor Baby warm up first. 

The windows fog up quickly. Dean and Sam are both panting, Sam’s eyes wide as he glances every which way like he’s in hysterics. On the rearview mirror, Cas is a statue in comparison, calmly staring out the window like he didn’t just... what exactly did he do? Teleport them? Knock them out for a few seconds while he dragged them out the pub?

“What happened?” Sam asks, voicing Dean’s confusion. 

“Dean said ‘out’,” is all Cas says. 

Dean can’t remember what exactly he said, but it must have been something along those lines, for sure. “So I said ‘Cas, get us out’ and--”

“No. But the intention behind your command was clear enough that I was unable to ignore it.” 

Oh. “Sorry.” 

Castiel makes eye contact with him through the mirror, but doesn’t reply.

“So I, uh, said whatever I said, and you... what, exactly?”

“I flew us out.”

“You f-- wait, seriously? You flew us out? _With your wings_?”

“I can’t fly with any other appendage,” Cas deadpans. 

“Your wings can actually fly?”

Cas’ face hardens and he turns to look back out the window. 

“I didn’t see anything,” Sam says, almost to himself. “It felt instantaneous. Did we lose consciousness?”

At first it seems like Cas is done talking to them, but eventually he sighs, expression loosening. “No. For short distances, my average flying speed is faster than the human brain can perceive.”

“What, like, the speed of light?”

“Not nearly. Approximately a hundred times slower.”

Dean’s jaw falls open a little. That’s still pretty fast. Beside him, Sam is gaping, too. 

“Shouldn’t we have died?” Dean asks, feeling stupid.

“I shielded you,” is all the explanation Castiel offers.

Sam turns in his seat to face Cas, resting his left elbow on the back of the seat. “Did we, um, fly through the roof? Or the wall?”

“The building doesn’t exist in the dimensions we traveled through.”

Cas is barely telling them anything, and it’s still way, way more information than Dean can process. The more Cas reveals, the scarier it all sounds. Dean doesn’t want to know anything more. It happened, it’s done, he and Sam are safe, it’s over. That’s all that matters. 

But there is one more question that keeps nagging at him. “So the damage to your wings doesn’t prevent you from using them? You can still fly?” 

It was, apparently, the wrong thing to ask. The look Cas gives him is downright terrifying. Dean’s hands tighten on the wheel and he fixes his gaze on the road ahead. Maybe if he pretends he never said anything, Castiel will forget about it. 

“He didn’t mean it like that, Cas,” Sam says, ever the mediator. He can’t keep his mouth shut, can he? “We will never hurt you to keep you from flying away. I mean, the collar won’t let you leave anyway, right?” 

Ouch. Way to go, Sam. Castiel doesn’t say anything, but Dean guesses he turns his death glare onto Sam because three seconds later, his brother is turning back around in his seat, facing forward once more.

Dean pulls over once they reach the motel and parks right in front of their room. Sam jumps out of the car as soon as it comes to a stop. “We’ll be right behind you,” Dean tells him. 

Sam hesitates for a moment, but eventually leaves them alone. 

Dean turns toward Castiel as soon as his brother disappears into their room, right elbow on the back of his seat. The angel is still looking out the window, but his expression is not murderous anymore. His eyes are wide, his lips a little pursed. He’s sitting even more still than usual.

Dean sighs. “Cas, I’m sorry. I don’t know if this means anything to you, but what I said, it wasn’t a threat or anything like that.” Castiel doesn’t look at him, doesn’t even take a breath by the look of it. “It’s just that your wings looked... hurt. When I saw them. And when you said they were actually for flying, I... I don’t know. If my leg looked like that, I sure as hell wouldn’t be able to walk, you know?” He pauses, but there’s no reply. “What I mean is, even if you can still fly, it looked like it would be painful. I don’t know if it is, I don’t pretend to know the first thing about angel wings, but if they bother you, and there’s anything, _anything_ we can do to help you, just let us know, okay?” 

Finally, Cas looks at him. His eyes are almost back to their usual squint, jaw loose as he parts his lips and licks them. “It’s a slow process, with the collar restricting my grace,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, “but they heal on their own, if left alone.” 

Dean nods once. “Thank you for telling me, Cas.” He wants to assure the angel no one will hurt his wings again, but he can’t keep that promise, can he? They both know that eventually Cas will leave and Dean won’t be able to protect him anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *beating Dean up with a pool noodle* Open your eyes dammit!!


	14. Chapter 14

Dean was adamant that they did _not_ sprinkle the scent blocker on their clothes _before_ getting into the Impala, so he ends up parking about three hundred yards from the farm. It’s noon, because Cas said that midday was the least active time of day for vampires, when they slept more deeply. 

“Let’s go,” he tells Sam as soon as he turns off the engine. As he exits the car, the door behind him opens, too. He puts the palm of his hand against Cas’ chest before the angel can get up from his seat. “Uh-uh. Sam and I are going. This is dangerous, Cas.” 

Cas hovers there for a moment, body resisting against Dean’s hand before finally yielding and relaxing back into the seat. His bitchface could rival one of Sam’s, but while Dean is sure the angel can hold his own in a fight, the nest is a big one and Dean can’t afford any distractions, not with his brother on the line. He shuts the door and joins Sam by the trunk. They finish getting all the necessary gear and start down the road, rubbing the burnt scent blocker into their clothes and hair as they go. The fine dust gets into Dean’s airways and makes his throat feel like sandpaper, but it’s worth it just to watch Sam’s face as he coats his precious hair with the ash. The guy might as well be coating it with sewer crap. 

The farm consists of two barns and a house. They check the barns but they are empty. The house, however, is locked. Sam picks the main lock, and when that’s done, Dean takes care of the sliding bolt using a piece of wire. The hinges are thankfully silent as they push the door open. 

The house is old and rundown. All the shutters are closed, but the light seeping in through the gaps between the slats reveals paint peeling off the walls and mysterious stains on the carpeted floor. There’s a laptop on the table and stuff in the trashcan, so the place is definitely inhabited. 

They take off their shoes while their pupils adapt to the darkness. The extra stealth might buy them a few more seconds, at least until the vamps pick up their heartbeats. The house is big, with a living room, dining room, kitchen, full bathroom and what was once probably a guest room on the ground floor. They cover the entire level in silence, machetes in hand, but it’s empty. Dean looks at the stairs and then at Sam, and with a nod from his brother they make their way very, very slowly up the steps in case one of them creaks. 

All the doors of the upper floor are closed. There’s five of them, but at least one must be a bathroom, Dean figures. He stands right outside of the first one, the one closest to the stairs, so they can make a quick exit if they need to. Sam stands in front of him and slowly turns the doorknob. The click it makes is soft, but rings loud in the quiet around them. Dean wastes no time. He pushes the door open and moves in. There are two beds, and on each there is someone sitting up. He hears the click of the door closing behind him and swings his machete full-force over the first bed, cutting off the vamp’s head. The other one shrieks and lunges at him from the other bed, but Sam beheads it mid-jump.

“The others will have heard that,” his brother points out. 

“Let’s go.”

Dean opens the door to find a grey-haired woman standing at the threshold, fangs out. He plunges a syringe into her body, whatever part he can reach, which turns out to be her arm. The grogginess hits fast anyway, and he yanks her inside for Sam to deal with while Dean steps into the hallway and beheads the vamp standing three feet behind her. 

The other doors are all open now and three more vampires are coming at them. Dean keeps slashing, instinct and adrenaline taking over. He manages to inject Dead Man’s Blood in one other vamp and swings his machete at the rest, Sam doing the same alongside him. There’s blood flying everywhere. Dean feels it running down his face in rivulets. Some of it is his own, he knows. Some of it may be Sam’s. He cuts off the last head in front of him and turns. The only vamp remaining is holding his brother in a chokehold from behind. Sam is struggling, but he doesn’t have his weapon with him. Dean runs at them and sinks his knife into the vamp’s back. It screams and lets go, rounding on Dean. Dean steps back, slashing the air in front of him with his machete, keeping the vamp’s attention on him. Just when it’s about to charge, Sam sinks a syringe into its neck. Dean grabs it by the hair and swings his blade with full force, achieving a clean cut. 

It’s over. Dean lets go of the head and it drops with a dull _thud_ onto the floorboards, rolling until it hits the wall.

“You okay?”

Sam nods frantically. “You?”

“Yeah.”

Dean stoops to half-lay, half-drop his machete on the floor and rests his hands on his knees, trying to regain his breath. He can hear Sam gasping, too. They are still young, but they aren’t teenagers anymore. 

“Let’s burn this place down,” Dean says. Standard procedure for them. “Go get the gas from the trunk, I’ll do one last round here. And check on Cas while you’re at it, will you?”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

He surveys the hallway as Sam starts down the stairs. It looks like a scene from Braindead, minus the lawnmower. And not nearly as funny. He counts six severed heads. Their estimates fell a little short, it seems. Speaking of short... 

He kicks a long-haired head until it rolls face-up. It’s not her. Hailey is nowhere to be seen.

There were two beds in the first room, both occupied. He checks the other rooms (one is indeed a bathroom) and counts nine beds, all unmade. But there’s only six bodies. Out of the corner of his eye he catches movement in the mirror that hangs on the wall to his left, but by the time he’s turned around Hailey is already in front of him, face to face. Well, more like face to chest.

“Was wondering where you were,” he says, stalling. His eyes scan the floor and spot his machete lying at the top of the stairs, on the other end of the hallway. He reaches behind him to get his knife instead. 

But Hailey is faster. She grabs his wrist as soon as he pulls out the knife, and with her other hand grips him by the collar of his shirt and shoves him against the wall. He hits it hard, all the air leaving his lungs. His legs are bent at an awkward angle that leaves his face level with hers and gives him no leverage to throw a kick, bare feet sliding on the blood-soaked carpet. She sinks her fingers into his wrist until his hand opens and the knife clatters to the floor. He tries to punch her, grab her, anything with his free hand, but her five-foot frame packs supernatural strength and she withstands his blows like a pro. 

She opens her mouth then and her fangs come out, crazy sharp and shiny with spit. She’s inches from his face, rancid breath ghosting over his skin. He screws his eyes shut and turns his face away, but he knows that won’t protect him, any second now she’s going to rip him apart--

There’s a whooshing sound and a thud and his neck stings, but he can’t feel her teeth inside of him.

“Hello, Dean.”

He opens his eyes to the sight of a beheaded body dropping to reveal Castiel standing behind it, Dean’s own machete in his hand.

“I apologize for the cut,” he’s saying, gesturing at Dean’s neck. “There wasn’t enough time to calculate the distance with more precision.”

Dean gapes like a fish, sprawled against the wall. His hand reaches up to touch his neck, and in the mirror on the opposite wall he sees he has a very small, very thin gash above his Adam’s apple. It’s the smallest of the wounds he’s suffered today. 

The sound of quick, heavy steps running up the stairs jolts Dean into motion, but Cas lays a hand on his shoulder, stilling him. 

“It’s Sam,” he says.

It is indeed Sam who appears at the top of the stairs, gasping for breath, eyes wild as he takes in the scene in front of him.

“ _Cas,_ ” he breathes out. “I-- I-- The car--” He gulps air into his lungs a couple of times and tries again. “The car was empty. Two dead vamps next to it.”

Cas shrugs. “They found me.”

  


***

  


In the end, it’s Dean that goes back to the car (Cas in tow) and cleans the weapons before stowing them back in the trunk, and Sam who stays in the house to take care of the ‘other cleanup’. Cas watches him wipe and sharpen the blades, one hip resting against the side of Dean’s car, hair almost blond in the bright midday sun. Dean feels rather self-conscious, being stared at so intently when he’s covered in sweat and blood and guts. 

“You didn’t stay in the car,” he says as casually as he can manage. He’s not sure his attempt at nonchalance makes any difference. Social subtleties are hit-or-miss when it comes to Cas; sometimes he picks up on tiny details, others he misses the most obvious things. 

“You didn’t tell me to.”

Dean can’t really remember what he said. This having-to-watch-his-every-word thing is getting old. “I’m glad you came, anyway. Thank you.”

Cas doesn’t say anything. Dean sneaks a glance at him. He’s no longer watching Dean; instead, he’s looking straight ahead, eyes narrowed against the sunlight. The soft breeze makes his hair flutter and his trenchcoat flap, but otherwise he looks like a statue. 

“I had to use a blade to kill them,” he says. 

Dean nods. “That’s how you kill vampires, yeah.”

“That’s how humans kill vampires.” He hooks a finger under his collar and pulls, like one might do with a tie that’s too tight. “And it’s how I have to do it now, too.”

“You mean you could kill them with your, uh, powers? If you didn’t have the collar?”

“With my grace, yes.” He frowns, opens his mouth, closes it. There’s more to it than that, Dean can tell. He waits patiently and eventually Cas continues. “I could still do it, in theory, but not out of my own free will. Only out of yours.”

“So you can’t use your grace unless I tell you to? Because I’m telling you, right now, you can use it whenever you want.” The words are out of his mouth before he can consider the consequences.

“It doesn’t work like that. You need to order me to, every time. Otherwise I can only access my grace in the smallest amounts, enough to manifest my wings or to open doors and other such ‘tricks’, as you call them.” He does the finger quotes and pulls a face that tells Dean exactly what he thinks of the word _tricks_ as a descriptor for his abilities. “Simple, effortless tasks. Or at least, they used to be.”

“Not anymore?”

Cas shakes his head and reaches up to touch his collar again. “This magic... it’s draining me.”

Draining him? What does that mean? Cas makes it sound like something that is actively happening, a process. Will his grace be gone forever once the magic drains it all? Will it come back to him if the collar is removed? 

In any case, one thing is clear. They are running out of time.


	15. Chapter 15

“There’s magic on the collar,” Dean tells Sam. It’s a rare occasion that they are alone in the library; normally Cas is sitting in his armchair (and it’s his in Dean’s head, now) reading a book and munching on a salty snack. But the angel is in his room at the moment. Probably sleeping, even though he shouldn’t need to sleep.

“Of course there is, Dean,” Sam replies.

“It drains Cas’ grace. His powers.”

That gives Sam pause. “It does?”

“I got my hands on the spell.” He pulls his phone from his pocket and opens one of the photos from the book, the one that describes—loosely—how the spell works, turning it over for his brother to see.

Sam skims through it, eyebrows knitting together. “It doesn’t say much.”

“No. But it’s a powerful spell. It needs to be, in order to submit the will of an angel to that of a human, right?”

“Which means it needs a huge power source,” Sam concludes, nodding.

“Exactly. And Cas’ grace is really powerful.”

“So his grace is bound with its own energy?”

Dean shrugs. “It’s a possibility.”

He can practically see the wheels turning in his brother’s head. Sam’s jaw tightens the moment he finally figures out what Dean is trying to tell him. “Dean, I’m not sure we’ll be able to create a counter spell for this. This is too advanced for us, not to mention we can’t test it--”

“I’ve got the counter spell, too. It was in the book. Full details.”

“Seriously? That’s...” The hopeful look that was blossoming on his brother’s face falls. “But it’s blood magic. That means we need the original blood for the counter spell.”

Dean grimaces. That’s the tiny little detail that he hasn’t worked out yet. “I know. I’ll figure it out.”

The look Sam gives him says his brother wouldn’t put his money on it. But come on, how difficult could it be? The blood is probably somewhere on Earth. Maybe. 

They’ve faced worse odds and come out on top. 

“What happened to wanting to sell him?” Sam asks.

“This is just in case that doesn’t pan out.” The answer slips out automatically, like a well-practiced lie.

He retreats before Sam can make any follow-up questions. He goes to the kitchen, gets a couple of beers and goes looking for Cas. There’s something he’s been wanting to discuss with the angel, something that normally Dean would ignore until it blew in his face, but Cas doesn’t deserve that, so Dean—armed with a little liquid encouragement—hitches up his big boy pants and goes knocking on the door to room number fifteen. 

It takes several moments for Cas to open it. He’s shirtless, dark hair sticking up every which way, eyelids drooping. 

“Did I wake you?” Dean asks, trying to keep his eyes level with Cas’. They wander downward anyway.

“It’s fine.”

“You okay? It’s four in the afternoon.” Cas’ face clouds over, so Dean hurries to change the subject. “Beer?” he asks, lifting the bottles into view.

“It’s four in the afternoon,” Cas parrots back at him, rolling his eyes, but he steps aside and lets Dean in.

“Been thinking about Rock Springs,” Dean says, sitting on Cas’ unmade bed. The sheets are warm. Cas sits beside him and Dean hands him one of the bottles. “About how I told you—or didn’t tell you, actually—to stay in the car.”

The mood shifts so suddenly it gives Dean whiplash. 

“I disobeyed,” Cas says, voice ice cold.

“No! No, no, no. See? This is what I wanted to talk to you about. I try to be careful, I do, but I keep screwing up. Ever since I found out you have to do what I say, I’ve been watching my words, trying to give you options, to give you an out if you want it.” He pauses, shrugs. “But I keep forgetting.”

“I have noticed this behavior you describe,” Cas says, visibly more relaxed. “It’s appreciated.”

“I want to get the collar off you.” 

Cas’ eyes widen for a fraction of a second, but he quickly schools his face into a blank mask. “You can’t.”

“Not yet, no. It’s very complicated magic. But I’m looking into it. This thing,” he gestures at the collar, which gleams with a golden tinge in the yellow light of the lamp, “must be so limiting for you.”

Cas looks away. “I can’t say I am used to it, but at least the constraint on my grace is no longer as painful as it was at the beginning.”

There’s a few minutes of silence while Dean mulls over this. He drinks his beer, watching Cas do the same. There’s something he’s been meaning to ask for a while, and now is the time, he thinks. He takes a deep breath and plunges on. “How long have you been a slave?”

“Fifty eight days,” Cas answers without missing a beat.

Dean stares. He was expecting an answer measured in years. This is even worse than what he had imagined. Cas has been passed around, sold at least five or six times, all in the span of two months. Cas was a free angel when Dean was hunting that young Djinn in the sweltering August heat of Arizona, but he was a slave when Sam found them a werewolf case in Arkansas the week after. “What-- what did you do before?”

“I lived most of my life in Heaven, like the rest of my brothers and sisters. I only came to Earth on occasion, when I was assigned a mission that required it.”

“A mission?”

“I am-- I _was_ a commander, in charge of a garrison.”

“Okay, Ben-Hur,” Dean jokes, but it’s really an attempt to cover up how much this information throws him off. Cas was a soldier. A commander, with other angels following his orders, doing what he told them to do. He had an entire garrison at his disposal, in the context of some sort of military hierarchy, which implies that Heaven has an army, which, in turn, implies that they fight against someone, either in attack or in defense. And Cas was a leader in this army. High in the hierarchy. But no one has come knocking on Dean’s door. “So if there are other angels in Heaven, and you are... I dunno, someone important, where’s your rescue squad?”

Cas turns his head away at the question, but not before Dean can see a grimace on his face. The muscles on his shoulders are tense under his skin. He pulls his knees up and rests his forearms on them, hands clasped tightly. “I can’t ever go back to Heaven,” he confesses eventually. His voice is so low that Dean has to strain to hear him even though they are sitting right next to each other in a quiet underground room.

“Why not?”

“I am a disgrace to the Host. If an angel is careless enough to let himself be caught and bound like this, he deserves to live in enslavement. The Host will want nothing to do with me. I’ve proved myself incautious and unreliable.”

“That’s not fair, Cas. If someone in the family screws up, you help them get back on their feet. You don’t just... abandon them. One mistake and you’re out forever? Cast out by your own kin?”

Cas shakes his head slowly, like Dean just doesn’t get it. “I deserve it.”

No one deserves slavery, Dean thinks. Not even those who sell themselves into it, much less those who are born into it, and especially not those who are forced into it, even if they aren’t human. But it’s the way the world works. There are a lot of people who actively fight against slavery laws, people who dedicate their entire careers to improving the lives of slaves – their living and working conditions, their contracts, the laws that protect them. But, just like there are many other hunters besides Sam and Dean and yet the world is still full of monsters, it’s not enough to be a definitive solution. And then there’s the whole matter of illegal slaves. If there’s a black market for angel slaves, there’s probably one for every species, too. Humans included. 

There was a time when these things never would have crossed Dean’s mind. They just didn’t affect him. But his life changed irreversibly the moment Castiel walked into it, even if he didn’t know it at the time. And now he’s got a slave of his own, an angel, living under his roof and magically bound to follow his every command. An angel who is hurting, both physically and emotionally, who has been cut off from his family, who is completely alone in the world except for Sam and Dean. 

“Do you miss them? Your family, I mean. Your home.”

“What do you care?” Cas spits out. 

Dean balks at the acid tone. “You’re my friend, Cas.”

“I thought I was your slave.”

  


***

  


Dean stops by the kitchen to throw the empty bottles into the trashcan and then heads to the library, straight to the drinks cabinet.

“Hey.”

He jumps, startled. He didn’t realize Sam was still here. His brother is sitting at the end of the table, laptop open in front of him.

“I found a potential buyer,” Sam tells him.

Dean’s hand tightens around the neck of the whisky bottle.

“His name is Phillip Miller. Owns a lumber business. Pretty rich. It’s worth a try, if you still want to sell Castiel.”

“Of course I want to.” The words burn on his tongue.

Sam narrows his eyes, but doesn’t question him. “Okay. I’ll arrange a meeting for Friday. Is that all right?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Dean takes the whole bottle to his room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH NO


	16. Chapter 16

Someone is drilling a hole into Dean’s head with a machine that keeps beeping-- no, it’s just his morning alarm and an epic hangover. Dean rolls onto his side and turns his bedside lamp on. Eight thirty. He should have turned his alarm off last night. When he sits up, it’s like his stomach tumbles out of his body. Missing dinner before downing an entire bottle of... something, was a bad idea. He throws the sheets off him and _ouch_ , that was a bad idea, too. The fabric is stuck to his skin, something kind of... crusted... _ugh,_ he fell asleep in his own jizz, for fuck’s sake. He doesn’t even remember jacking off last night.

He washes himself as best as he can in the lavatory and throws on enough of last night’s clothes to make his way to the bathroom. He showers with his eyes closed, fighting a fresh wave of nausea when he has to balance on one foot to wash the other, and spends at least ten minutes after he’s done just resting against the tiled wall and letting the hot water pour over his skin. He’s so very tired. And angry. He’s not sure why or at who, but he feels it burning cold in his veins. 

Once he’s clean and dressed he feels marginally better, but not enough to even think about doing anything besides languishing. He finds Cas in the library, as usual, socked feet perched on the edge of his armchair, a book open over his knees.

“Sam went out for a run,” he informs Dean without looking up. 

“It’s kinda late for him, isn’t it?”

“He mentioned he stayed up late last night doing research.”

They don’t have a case at the moment. Sam was probably Skyping with Eileen again. Or... Dean frowns. Or he was researching this Miller fellow. He groans and drops onto a chair, burying his face in his hands.

“Are you all right?”

Great. He’s being so pathetic that Cas, of all people, is worried enough to ask him about it. “My head is killing me,” he says. 

Keeping his eyes closed helps with the headache, actually, so he stays like that, half-sprawled over the table. Maybe he falls asleep, because a soft thud next to him startles him out of something that wasn’t quite a dream, but wasn’t quite conscious thought, either. 

He looks up to find a plate with a sandwich on the table, and Castiel standing beside him, setting down a cup of coffee, too. 

“You missed dinner last night, and I believe you didn’t have breakfast today, either.”

Dean smiles despite himself, picking up the sandwich and taking a bite. Plain PB&J, nothing weird about it. “Cas, you’re a godsend.” Maybe it’s some sort of apology for biting Dean’s head off last night. Granted, Dean was sticking his nose into things that were absolutely not his business, wasn’t he? Clearly, Cas’ family is not a good conversation topic.

He finishes the sandwich in three huge bites and washes it down with the coffee. It settles his stomach, even though it tastes like ash. But the taste is not because Dean hasn’t brushed his teeth yet, or at least not entirely. In less than three days, Cas will be gone to who knows where with who knows what kind of owner and Dean can’t even bring himself to ask the angel if that’s what he wants because he’s afraid of the answer. 

Three days are better than none, though.

“Hey, Cas, do you know how to fire a gun?”

“It doesn’t appear to be complicated.”

“There’s a lot more to it than just pointing and pulling the trigger, you know? I can show you the basics, if you want.” It’s just an excuse to spend time together—what little of it they’ve got left—but it’s as good as any. “It’ll be useful for cases if we’re going to be hunting together again.” 

Cas’ face lights up, mouth open in a little ‘oh’. It’s magical. “We are?” 

Guilt is corroding the bottom of Dean’s stomach, but he ignores it. “Yeah, sure. We made a great team at Spring Rocks, didn’t we?” He is officially the worst person on Earth. Someone somewhere must be keeping track. Santa Claus, maybe. “So, what do you say? Want me to teach you?”

“I would greatly appreciate it.”

Dean stands up and clasps Cas’ shoulder with a fake grin. He’ll be getting a lump of coal in his stocking this Christmas, for sure.

They walk together to the shooting range, with a short detour to Dean’s room to get his 1911. The range is slightly chillier than the rest of the bunker, and Cas has no shoes on, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Dean approaches a lane and, after checking that the chamber is empty, places his gun on the table and the magazine beside it. He clips a paper target to the frame and presses the button to slide it all the way to the back of the range, then picks up the safety glasses and ear muffins and hands them to Cas.

“I can prevent damage to my vessel’s eyes and eardrums without them,” Cas says.

“Right. Well, I don’t normally wear them myself, but that’s wrong and I’m supposed to be teaching you here, so...” He puts them on, leaving one ear clear for now. It feels unfamiliar, confining. “Anyway, this is easy once muscle memory takes over, but the first few times there’s a lot of things you need to keep in mind, both safety- and efficiency-wise. Have you ever seen someone up close shooting a gun?”

“Yes.”

“Did you notice the way they held it, the way they positioned their body, the precautions they took?”

Cas pauses for a second before replying. “That was not my priority at the moment.”

_Jesus._ “Okay. Well, paying attention to these things in an armed opponent can help you find weaknesses you can exploit in your favor. But first you have to learn to do it yourself, so let’s focus on the basics now, okay?” He turns to face the front of the lane and motions for Cas to stand closer. The lane is narrow and when Cas approaches they are barely a foot apart. “Rule number one of any firing range – always keep your gun pointed in a safe direction. At the lane itself, this means I point it forward and you stay behind me. Got it?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now, rule number two – keep your finger off the trigger until the moment you intend to pull it.” He picks up the unloaded gun and turns it sideways to show Cas how he keeps his index finger resting along the slide. “You load the magazine like this--” he demonstrates by taking out a bullet from the magazine and putting it back in “--and insert it like this.” He presses it in until it clicks. “And this thing right here unlocks the safety.” Another click as he disengages the lever. “I’ll teach you more about all that later. The final step is loading the first bullet into the chamber. You pull the slide all the way back... and release it.” The slide snaps forward with yet another click. “Now the gun is ready to be fired.”

Cas watches him attentively throughout the entire explanation, taking in every little movement, every word. There’s a focused crease between his brows that Dean is tempted to smooth out with his thumb. 

“Watch,” he tells Cas, adjusting the earmuffs to cover his exposed ear and facing the target downrange. He takes care to assume the correct position, conscious of every part of his body, aligning every muscle to attain a competition-perfect stance. His finger slides along the cool metal until it catches on the trigger, and without pause keeps sliding back. The shot feels natural even though the experience is dampened by the protection around his face. Cas physically startles at the sound, though. 

“Easy,” Dean says automatically, freeing his ear again. “This is totally safe, as long as we’re careful and follow all the rules. Wanna give it a go?”

Cas’ eyes flick between the gun and Dean’s face. He looks uncertain. That’s a good sign, from someone who’s never picked up a gun before and received almost no instructions so far.

Dean sets the gun back on the table. “Come here, let me show you.” 

They are close enough already that there’s no way for Cas to ‘come here’, but since Dean was careless enough not to phrase it as a choice, he finds himself almost nose to nose with the angel.

“Okay. So, um, stand facing the target, feet shoulder-width apart.” He steps back, plastering himself against the divider in the tiny stall, then takes off the safety glasses and earmuffs and picks up the gun, holding it in front of Cas. “Here. Remember, point downrange and keep your finger off the trigger.”

Cas’s fingers brush Dean’s as he puts his hand on the weapon. Once his grip is secure enough, Dean lets go.

“Are you right-handed or left?”

“My vessel has two hands.”

“Yeah, _duh,_ but which is your dominant one? The one you can hold steadier, make more complex movements with.”

“Both are controlled by me. Why would I be more skilled with one than with the other?”

Dean knows Cas is an angel, of course he does, but sometimes he seems so human that these unexpected reminders throw him completely off. “Never mind. Keep it in your right hand like you are now, but a little higher up the grip. Extend your index finger along the barrel, point your thumb upward, and use the rest of your fingers to hold the grip.” Dean demonstrates with his own hand, curling it around an imaginary gun. “The meaty part below your thumb should fit right into the curve of the grip. This will give you more leverage against recoil.”

Cas follows the instructions to a T. His hand fits naturally around Dean’s gun like the 1911 was made for him just as much as it was made for Dean. He keeps the weapon steady even when holding all its weight with only one arm.

“That’s good, Cas. Now add your other hand, your support hand. You’re, um, stronger than a human--” he can feel himself _blushing_ , for god’s sake “--but it’s the standard position, reinforcing your grip with both hands. Your left palm should lie against the exposed part of the grip and a little over your fingers too, thumb right below the other one, and the rest of your fingers below the trigger guard, all four of them. In fact, your index finger should be pressed tight against the guard to help keep the gun steady.” 

He watches Cas wrap his other hand around the weapon in a near perfect grip. 

“Yeah, just a little, um...” Dean reaches out with both hands and places them on top of Cas’ to reposition them slightly. The angel’s skin is warm and dry, mostly soft with some coarseness over the knuckles, and up close he smells like coffee and Dean’s shampoo. There’s a little static in the air, probably caused by Cas’ trenchcoat brushing over the hairs on Dean’s bare arms. “Feel how it fits?” he asks, dropping his voice to a whisper. He’s practically speaking in Cas’ ear. “Your left hand with your right one and both of them with the gun, like every curve matches and the metal becomes part of you, an extension of your body.” 

Cas nods, and Dean feels it against his temple. Unthinkingly, he turns his head, and he’s _right there_ , mouth less than an inch from the corner of Cas’ lips. Cas doesn’t seem to notice, though; his eyes are trained on the gun with a focused expression, and for a second his tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip.

“Relax your knees,” Dean continues, eyes fixed on the corner of Cas’ mouth now, “bend them a little so they don’t lock. And that’s it. Now just aim. Use your dominant eye-- well, the eye you prefer, in your case, and align the front sight right here--” he reaches out to graze his finger against it “--with the notch here, and the target in the background. Dead center; I keep my gun zeroed to short distances.”

Cas aims and holds the position steady as a rock. Dean waits five seconds, then ten, then twenty, and Cas never moves, not even a tremor. It’s just as fascinating as it is scary. Feeling bold, Dean moves to stand behind him, close, very close. “Now slide your finger into the trigger guard,” he whispers into Cas’ ear, “and squeeze. Don’t pull, just squeeze, constant pressure until the shot surprises you. Don’t try to anticipate it. When you’ve taken all the slack out of the trigger and start feeling resistance, just keep squeezing. Soft, but sure.” 

Not one inch of his body is touching Cas, but the situation is intimate, purposefully so on Dean’s part. It thrills him to have an excuse to do this, to secretly create this atmosphere between them, one that Cas is not even aware of. At least, he thinks Cas isn’t aware of it. If Cas were uncomfortable, surely he would say something... wouldn’t he? Hell, the guy’s got a gun in his hand. He could turn and put a bullet between Dean’s eyes if he wanted. 

No. What Dean is doing is wrong, and he knows it. 

He steps back and at the same time Cas fires. Dean practically jumps out of his skin. Cas doesn’t even shake with the recoil.

“I hit the target,” the angel declares, setting the gun down on the table and turning to face Dean.

Dean stares at him. He doesn’t know what it was about the situation that made him think it was okay to flirt like that with someone who not only wasn’t aware of it, but couldn’t even turn him down. 

After several more seconds of staring than anyone would consider appropriate, Dean shakes himself out of it enough to press the button to slide the target frame back forward. Halfway up the range, he can already tell both shots hit the target dead center, one right next to the other in the innermost circle.

Dean whistles in approval. “Good aim, Cas!”

“The sights spare me most of the work.”

“Still, this was your first time. Beginner’s luck can only get you so far, and this is definitely beyond that.” He pretends to examine the target once more just to give himself time to gather his thoughts. “Wanna do a couple more rounds? I can show you some tricks if you want.”

They end up going through an entire box of bullets before lunch and another one after. Exhaustion finally wins over by eight p.m., at least for Dean. They pick up the empty casings to refill them later, which gives Dean a nice view of Cas from behind as the angel bends over. Dean tries to be subtle about it, but he knows he fails. Cas either doesn’t notice or doesn’t mind.

Dean is aware that his thoughts are becoming a little too inappropriate, even if only in a very broad, non-specific way. But it’s only a matter of time before they coalesce into clearer images and desires. Cas is leaving soon, though. Out of sight, out of mind, right? 

Somehow, Dean is not so sure that will be the case.

After a quick dinner (BLTs left in the fridge by Sam, god bless him), Dean is ready to hit the sack. He finds himself reluctant to leave Cas, though. They’ve got such little time left. 

“Hey, wanna watch something on Nextflix? Your pick.”

Cas picks Dr. Sexy, which makes Dean’s stomach do funny things to the sandwiches inside it. They get under the covers with the lights off. Dean’s left thigh rests against Cas’ right one so they can set the laptop on top of them.

It’s warm and comfortable and it makes Dean’s soul ache. Cas gets quickly engrossed in the show and Dean uses the distraction to stare at him. The angel’s face twitches a little in reaction to the events unfolding on the screen, and during an aerial shot of Seattle Mercy Hospital his lips even lift a little at the corners in a small smile. Dean wishes he could take a picture. 

It’s a dangerous game, toying with these ideas. He wants to think that if circumstances were different, he and Cas could be friends. But the truth is, if circumstances were different, Dean would probably hunt Cas down and, considering Cas’ powers, probably perish at his hand. 

He likes Cas, though. What little of his personality the angel lets shine through is like a magnet to Dean, and in these quiet moments together, Dean feels not just content, but at peace. It’s something he hasn’t felt in a long, long time. 

The warmth radiating from Cas and the soft background sound of Dr. Sexy confessing his inner turmoil to a pretty nurse eventually lull him into a dreamless sleep. 

He wakes up slowly, softly, feeling like he’s slept for ten days straight. He reaches out in the dark until his fingers find the bedside lamp and turns the switch on, flooding the room with light.

Cas’ face hovers above him. The angel is propped up on one elbow, staring at him.

“Hey,” Dean says, voice thick with sleep. In his mind’s eye, he sees himself leaning up and brushing their lips together in a tentative kiss. He hurts with how much he wants it. 

“I think Sam is making breakfast,” Cas says. 

“We’d better go help him before he burns the bunker down.”

Two days left.


	17. Chapter 17

Thursday is sunny as a spring day and by late afternoon the temperature in the bunker is warm enough for only one layer of clothing. Dean is wearing three and sweating like a pig in heat as he finishes molding the epoxy resin around a leaking pipe in the kitchen. He had to tear a hole into the wall to access the leak, and the old tiles will be a pain to find replacements for. Maybe he should install the plumbing for a dishwasher, too, since the wall is already open. He’ll think about it in the shower while the resin cures.

Cas is in the bathroom, unlacing his sneakers. “Were you able to fix the leak?” he asks casually when Dean comes in. He’s in jeans and a t-shirt, dark smears all over his clothes and face, nails absolutely filthy with dirt. He looks gorgeous.

“We’ll see once the whole thing is dry. What happened to you?”

“Sam and I are setting up a vegetable garden outside.” He pulls his t-shirt off and wipes the dirt off his face before tossing it to the floor next to his shoes. “It’s rather small, but we’ve already planted beets, white and orange carrots, spring onions and spinach. The weather will continue to be favorable enough for the seeds to germinate, although I can’t yet predict if it will keep up until the plants have taken root.” He pulls his pants and underwear down together, either unaware or unconcerned that Dean is staring at his ass. They guy is talking about vegetables and Dean is getting a hard-on. “We can start harvesting the spinach and onions by December, before the first snowfalls. You’ll be able to use them in the dishes you prepare. I’m looking forward to trying them.” He gets into the shower stall right next to Dean’s usual one and turns the water on. 

Dean replays Cas’ words in his head. Cas thinks he’ll still be here in December. Which means Sam didn’t tell him anything about Miller. Does he think Dean already mentioned it? Is he waiting for Dean to broach the subject, since Cas is technically Dean’s responsibility? Or is he, like Dean, too much of a coward to tell Cas that after everything the three of them went through together, they are selling him off anyway?

He shakes his head to clear it and starts taking off his clothes, mumbling something to Cas about not wanting any rabbit food in his human food. 

“It’s not ‘rabbit food’,” Cas replies. Dean can hear the air quotes. “Vegetables are essential to the diet of humans. They provide crucial nutrients that your bodies need in order to survive.”

Dean gets into his stall while Cas keeps going off about the importance of eating your veggies. He tunes the words out, but lets the sound of Cas’ deep, gravelly voice wash over him along with the water. The angel is fully naked on the other side of the divider, skin wet and warm. He’s probably sliding his soapy hands all over his body, down his arms and chest, between his legs. Dean could offer to help him with his back. Maybe... maybe his wings, too? Does he wash them? Dean supposes they could fit in the stall if Cas pulled them really tight against his body. He wouldn’t be able to move around, though. And Dean would be inevitably crowded against the tiled wall, their bodies forced together to make room for the wings. Wet skin sliding against wet skin, infinite points of contact between them. 

Dean swallows a curse and reaches down to take himself in hand. Cas is barely three feet from him, still going off about vegetables for fuck’s sake, and after only a handful of strokes Dean is done for. He bites his fist as he comes, body almost doubling over, throat closing against the sounds that threaten to spill out. 

When Dean becomes aware of his surroundings again, Cas is still talking, describing different types of soil now, completely oblivious to what just transpired in the stall next to his. Or so Dean hopes. 

Dean hears him shut the water off and draw the curtain open, so he hurries to finish his shower, too. “You’re very chatty today,” Dean comments when Cas makes a pause. “What’s put you in such a good mood?” 

“I feel very well-rested,” Cas replies. “Perhaps there is merit to the theory that a better quality of sleep can be obtained when sharing the sleeping space with individuals one trusts.” 

Dean’s hand stops in the middle of sliding the soap over his spent dick. Cas trusts him. He just said it, he trusts Dean enough to sleep peacefully next to him. Trusts that Dean will watch over him and have his back should any danger arise. Trusts that Dean won’t hurt him. “If it helps you sleep better, you’re welcome to, uh, share my bed... any time...” He grimaces. Even as he says it, he knows how it sounds, but the words just slip out. The worst part is, he wishes he could actually make that kind of invitation. But he and Cas are not like that. They can’t be.

Cas is silent for a while.

Dean shifts on his bare feet. Perhaps the offer was too forward. He doesn’t want Cas to get the wrong idea. “We could bring a mattress in,” he suggests. “Put it on the floor so you’ll be more comfortable. My bed is not really big enough for two grown men.” Dean can’t hear any movement on the other side of the curtain over the splash of the water around him. It was kind of rude to tell Cas to sleep on the floor, wasn’t it? “Or you can have my bed, if you want, and I’ll take the floor.” But his offer is met with even more silence. Stupid, stupid! He should never have said anything. Cas doesn’t want to be pressured into sharing Dean’s bed, or even his room. Dean is his owner. Cas may very well think that if he refuses, Dean might _make_ him. 

He’s about to take it all back when Cas finally speaks. 

“Thank you,” the angel says simply. 

It’s not a yes, it’s not a no, but most importantly it’s not one of his usual snippy remarks, so Dean lets out a quiet sigh in relief.

  


***

  


That night, when Dean goes back to his room after dinner, he leaves the door open a crack. He changes quickly into clean pajamas and turns the light off before pulling the covers back from the bed and sitting with his back against the headboard. As an afterthought, he pulls the gun from under his pillow and leaves it on his bedside table, just in case the bed ends up hosting more activity than usual, so to speak. Which it won’t, for a number of reasons Dean doesn’t care to revisit at the moment.

As much as he tries not to, though, he can’t help getting his hopes up. His hands wring the fabric under him, the material slipping between his sweaty fingers. 

He has no idea what he’s doing.

He’s startled by a knock on his door. “Come in,” he says, heart hammering against his ribs. 

The door swings open to reveal Castiel’s profile, dark against the bright hallway. Light spills in around him, casting a human-shaped shadow on the floor of Dean’s room.

“Hey,” Dean says. He sounds breathless. “Did Sam go to bed yet?”

“Yes.” 

“Let me go get his laptop real quick, then.” 

Cas shakes his head. “He took it with him to his room.”

“Damn it. I guess that means no Netflix tonight, huh?”

“Should I leave?” The question is asked softly, in a hushed tone. Dean wishes he could see Cas’ face, but it’s completely shadowed. 

“No, no. You can stay if you want.”

Cas hesitates for a moment, then takes a step into the room. 

“Close the door,” Dean says. 

When the door clicks shut, the room is cast into complete darkness. Dean reaches over to his nightstand and turns on the lamp. Cas is standing almost at the foot of Dean’s bed, wearing Dean’s sweatpants and a cheap white t-shirt, barefoot. His eyes are wide, lips parted just enough to make Dean want to slip his tongue between them. 

He didn’t bring a mattress in with him, Dean realizes, feeling lightheaded at the thought. He moves to one side of the bed in invitation. Cas walks over and sits down on the offered space with his back against the headboard and his legs stretched out in front of him, mirroring Dean’s position.

Cas is looking ahead, which is good because Dean doesn’t think he could ask his next question if they were actually looking one another in the eye. “Are you here because you can’t sleep?”

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Cas shakes his head.

Dean reaches out to touch Cas’ cheek, the one facing away from him, and uses the caress to turn Cas’ head toward him. The angel’s pupils are huge even in the lamplight, only a sliver of blue around them. His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip and Dean’s decision is made for him. He leans in, slowly enough that Cas can move away if he wants. Cas stays still as a statue. Dean tilts his head at the last second and their lips finally meet. 

Dean’s eyes slip closed. Cas’ lips are cool and moist, soft, but the adrenaline thrumming under Dean’s skin and the blood rushing in his ears make it almost impossible to really take everything in, to focus on every little bit of Cas like he wants to. Still, it soon becomes obvious that Cas is not actively participating. 

The world caves in under Dean. He’s made a mistake. He opens his eyes and starts to pull back, but barely catches a glimpse of blue before Cas’ mouth chases after him and they are kissing again. This time they are both kissing, no doubt about it. It’s Dean that leads, but that’s fine, because Cas is kissing back.

Cas kisses him with open eyes, body rigid. Dean takes his hand and the angel tightens his fingers around Dean’s. When he flicks his tongue over Cas’ bottom lip, Cas gasps, and it’s all Dean can do not to push him into the mattress and just _take him_. He takes full advantage of Cas’ open mouth to lick and suck inside. Cas opens wider to let him explore, obligingly caressing Dean’s tongue with his own when Dean seeks him out. He tastes like toothpaste and all of Dean’s fantasies. 

Dean finds the hem of Cas’ t-shirt and tugs a little, a silent request. Cas pushes Dean’s hands away and takes his t-shirt off himself, the muscles of his stomach and torso rippling tantalizingly as he pulls the garment over his head. The sight of him stretched like that, with his arms up and his face covered, makes a myriad of ideas flash before Dean’s eyes. 

Cas reaches for his pants next, but Dean captures his wrists and stills him. “Let me. Lie down.” 

There’s a pause where Cas just stares at him, but then he scoots down the bed until he can recline and lay his head on the pillow. His hair, longer now than when Dean first met him, frames his face like a dark halo against the white sheets. Dean hooks his fingers under Cas’ waistband and tugs the pants off, then sits back to the sight in. Cas is fully naked before him, breathing through parted lips, miles of skin on offer as he lies all spread out for Dean to feast on. His cock sits half-hard among short, dark hairs, and Dean can’t help but reach out and touch it. Cas jerks a little at the contact, so Dean moves his hand up and caresses Cas’ stomach instead, then his chest, his shoulders, his arms. He straddles the top of Cas’ thighs and lets his mouth join the explorations, trailing kisses along the angel’s collarbone, up his neck. Cas visibly shudders when Dean licks the shell of his ear, which encourages Dean to suck the lobe into his mouth and nibble on it. 

Cas has his eyes screwed shut now, face contorted like he’s struggling with himself, and he’s almost panting, hands fisted into the sheets. His cock is already fully hard, sitting right in front of Dean’s clothed one. Dean moves to the empty side of the bed and quickly takes off his t-shirt and pajama pants. When he looks back at Cas, the angel still has his eyes closed, eyebrows pulled down in a frown.

“Relax, angel,” Dean whispers. “I’ve got you.” 

Cas finally opens his eyes, gaze travelling down Dean’s naked body, focusing between his legs. 

Dean lets him watch for a moment, then takes his hand and tugs, urging the angel on top of him. “Come here.”

Cas rolls and sits up on top of Dean all in one movement, one leg on each side of Dean’s hips. Their balls brush together for a moment as Cas sits back, sending a ripple of pleasure up Dean’s spine. Cas looks a little uncertain now that he’s on top, eyes roaming all over Dean’s body like he doesn’t quite know what to do with it. 

“You can touch me if you want,” Dean offers. He takes Cas’ hand and puts it on his own chest to demonstrate. 

Cas stays still for a moment, staring at his hand like the sight of it on Dean’s skin is too complex to comprehend. 

“Go on,” Dean encourages.

Slowly, Cas’ hand moves up, sliding easily over Dean’s sweaty skin. The touch lights Dean up like a firework, making him twitch as it glides over one of his nipples. Cas, who has his eyes fixed on Dean’s face now, seems to notice the reaction, and attempts to replicate it on Dean’s other nipple, getting the same result. The angel’s face is open, lips parted and eyes wide as in wonder. Dean grabs the back of his head and brings him down for a kiss, this time much messier, wetter. 

Cas keeps one hand on the mattress for support and the other on Dean’s chest. He kisses Dean with his eyes closed this time, so Dean lets his own slip shut, too, and places his hand on Cas’ knee. The angel’s skin feels like it’s on fire, and it’s even a little damp now, though much less than a human’s would be under the same circumstances. 

Dean caresses Cas’ leg with his thumb, sliding his hand slowly up, finally settling on Cas’ ass. Cas stops the kiss for a second at the touch, like Dean took him by surprise, but quickly settles and dives back in. Dean kneads the fat and muscle, digging in a little roughly maybe, but not nearly enough to cause discomfort, he’s sure. He just _wants_ , so much, and he can barely contain all that need.

It’s when his other hand snakes down Cas’ neck and his fingers brush the cool metal of the collar that his mind finally clears. 

He wants to see them. _Needs_ to see them. To touch them, feel them. 

He realizes he’s stopped kissing Cas when the angel pulls back to look at him. 

“Cas...” 

But he can’t say it. They are lying naked in Dean’s bed about to dance the horizontal tango and he can’t say _hey Cas, I want to touch your wings_. So instead he reaches out, index finger hovering over the sigil that will release them, manifest them, whatever it is that makes them corporeal for Dean to see and feel, and waits for Cas’ nod of approval. 

He doesn’t get one. Something crosses Cas’ face, too brief for Dean to decipher, and then his expression settles into something intense enough to send a spike of adrenaline coursing through Dean’s veins. Before Dean can do anything, though, Cas grabs his wrists and pins them against the mattress, and between one blink and the next his wings are _there_. 

They are not the wings Dean remembers, though. No trace is left of the dying, discolored feathers that clumped in patches, leaving the skin exposed. In their place, Cas’ wings are entirely covered in a thick, shiny coat of dark feathers that look almost black in the dim light of the bedside lamp and glisten like oil when Cas moves.

“Beautiful,” Dean whispers with what little breath he has left.

Cas’ lips part at the compliment. 

Dean tries to reach out—he wants nothing more than to sink his fingers, his entire _face_ into those soft-looking feathers, to stroke them and kiss them and taste them—but the supernaturally strong grip around his wrists doesn’t budge. 

“Come on, Cas, let me t--”

He’s cut off by Cas’ lips on his, kissing him open-mouthed and stealing all coherent thought from him. Cas kisses him hard, almost forcefully, taking complete control. Dean can barely catch a breath. 

And then Cas’ hips are on him, their cocks trapped in the sweaty, slippery space between their bodies, and Dean is lost. With a handful of thrusts he’s coming, eyes screwed shut against the overwhelming force of his orgasm slamming into his body and rippling over each nerve ending, lighting him up until he’s burning, the fire consuming him.

When he gets his senses back, he’s so tired he can’t even open his eyes. Cas rolls off him, but doesn’t leave, just lies down beside him. Dean wants to ask him if he had a good time, but talking feels like too much effort right now, and before he can muster the strength, he’s falling asleep.


	18. Chapter 18

_Gross, _is Dean’s first thought when he wakes up. He’s on his stomach, naked, with his skin stuck to the sheets by dried cum and--__

____

He sits up so fast he sees spots.

He’s alone.

The memory of what happened last night hits him like a ton of bricks. He can’t even focus on any details, just the crushing guilt settling in the pit of his stomach. He throws on the first thing he finds—last night’s pajamas discarded on the floor—and hurries out into the hallway and down to room number fifteen. 

It’s empty. Of course it is. Because Dean asked Cas into his bed and then proceeded to fucking _tell him what to do_. With his fucking gun on the bedside table like a threat, for god’s sake.

He punches the doorframe. It’s metallic, so all he achieves is a sharp pain on his knuckles.

He knows he’s not going to find Cas in the bunker, but he looks for him, anyway. As he searches frantically from room to room, his mind starts supplying all the details from the previous night, reinterpreting every facial expression (not pleasure but distress), every silence (not breathlessness but fear), every jolt, every shudder, every time Cas pulled away.

He hears the main door opening and closing and hurries to the War Room, but it’s Sam that comes down the stairs, sweaty and in shorts.

“What’re you doing up so early?” his brother asks, wiping his brow with a tiny towel. His face falls when he catches sight of Dean’s. “What happened?”

“Cas left.” The words leave him without a voice, merely an exhalation. 

Sam frowns. “No, he didn’t.” He waves a hand, gesturing at the entrance. “He’s just outside the door, enjoying the morning air. It gets so stuffy in here.” Dean’s expression must still be disquieting, because Sam forces a sympathetic smile and puts his damp hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Relax, Dean. He’s not going anywhere. He can’t, not with the collar.” 

Right. Dean had forgotten about that. 

“You’ll get your money tonight,” Sam adds, fake smile transforming into a disapproving frown. Dean can’t tell him that’s not what’s eating at him, because then he’d have to tell him what actually _is_ eating at him, and Sam would disapprove of that even more. Not to mention Dean would choke on his own shame before he could get the first word out.

He runs up the stairs but stops at the door. He wants to see for himself, to make sure Cas truly hasn’t left ( _‘he can’t’_ , Sam’s voice echoes in his head), but he’s not brave enough to face the angel. Besides, Cas clearly doesn’t want to see him, and he has every right not to. Dean has taken away enough of his choices to take that one, too. 

He balls his hands into fists. The right one hurts as the skin on his bruised knuckles stretches. Today, Castiel will leave and he’ll never have to see Dean again.

Dean goes through his morning routine like an automaton. He showers, dresses, brushes his teeth and makes coffee without sparing a single thought for all these things, his mind instead focusing on a continuous replay of last night, each loop more devastating than the one before. In the end, he never drinks the coffee, and ends up pouring it down the drain. 

Castiel comes inside a couple of hours later. As soon as he hears the door, Dean runs to his room. He takes Sam’s laptop with him, and plays round after round of Solitaire until well past lunchtime. 

It’s almost four p.m. when someone knocks on his door. He freezes in his chair, one hand on the computer trackpad and one on the edge of his desk. It’s Cas, coming to demand an apology, an explanation, but Dean’s got no explanation and an apology won’t ever be enough--

“Dean?”

It’s Sam. Dean lets out the air he was holding. “Come in.”

“I’d really like my laptop back,” Sam says when he opens the door. 

Dean turns toward him, and Sam frowns.

“You okay?”

Dean closes his eyes and barely stops himself before shaking his head. “I just want this nightmare to end,” he admits, voice low like he’s in a confessionary. He doesn’t dare to open his eyes and see his brother’s face. “Have you... have you talked to him?”

“About?”

Dean chances a look. Sam looks downright angry.

“Dean, you told him about tonight, didn’t you?”

Dean doesn’t bother trying to hide his grimace; his brother already knows the answer.

“Dean! You should have told him the _second_ we arranged the meeting! This is so not fair to Cas!”

“I know,” Dean practically groans. “I... I just couldn’t find the time, okay?”

Sam scoffs. “In two days?” But then he shakes his head, shoulders slumping, and pinches the bridge of his nose like he just can’t muster the energy to argue. “I told you not to do this.”

“Do what?”

“Get attached.”

“I-- I-- I didn’t!”

“Then why are you sulking?”

Dean wants to say he’s not sulking, but it’d be pointless, so he just shrugs.

“Wait,” Sam says, frowning, “why is _Cas_ sulking?”

Dean’s eyes widen of their own accord. He probably looks like a deer caught in the headlights. 

“Dean...” His brother sounds hesitant. Dean can’t meet his eye. “You need to be careful.” 

Careful? _Careful?!_ What he needs to do is turn back time and think with his fucking brain instead of with his dick.

“Cas is in a very vulnerable position,” Sam continues. “You’re his owner. Even if you don’t mean it, you could be--”

“You know what?” Dean says, closing the laptop with enough force to make Sam wince and tossing it onto the bed behind him. “Get your goddamned computer and leave me in peace.” 

His tone is icy enough to shut Sam up. His brother hesitates a little by the door, and eventually approaches to get his laptop. 

But Sam always has to have the last word, god damn him. “We leave in an hour,” he informs Dean. “I’m telling Cas.” 

He leaves without waiting for an answer. Not that Dean had one.

  


***

  


They arrive to the abandoned warehouse just north of the Kansas Turnpike fifteen minutes before the arranged time to get a feel of the place, just in case, but Miller is already waiting for them outside, grey shirt rendering him almost invisible in the moonlit mist. He’s alone. There’s no car in sight. 

“Sam and Dean, I presume?” the mas asks as they approach, a viscous nasality coating his elongated words.

Dean nods.

“And, of course...” The man trails off, gesturing toward Cas. 

Cas is standing behind Sam and Dean, shoulders hunched and head down. The memory of him in a parking lot in Grand Island, broken wings spread out and ready to pounce, flashes unbidden through Dean’s mind. The contrast is jarring.

Miller crowds into Dean’s space and past him, toward Cas. Slowly enough that Dean never thinks to stop him, he reaches out and tilts Cas’ head up with a single finger. Cas meets his eyes unwaveringly, jaw set.

“You look good, angel,” he says, voice low and private. “Unbroken.”

Dean bristles. “His name is Castiel.”

Miller turns his head to look at him without removing his finger from Cas’ chin. “In the spirit of honest business, mine is Alastair.” 

Honest business? Nothing is honest about any of this. And besides, Alastair is clearly a made-up name; this man is unmistakably the same one from the pictures Sam found during his research of Phillip Miller, even though he looks creepier here in the foggy night, shadows harsh on his gaunt face.

Miller turns back toward Cas and drops his hand. Neither says anything, but they stare at one another long enough that Dean is sure some sort of silent conversation is happening between them. Miller’s mouth tilts in a small smirk. Cas’ expression hardens in response.

“Well?” Dean prompts with the sole purpose of butting into their private tête-à-tête. 

“You have him in very good condition,” Miller replies, turning to face him. “I didn’t know what to expect when I saw the cropped photos online.”

“Cropped?” 

“From the waist up.”

“I did state he was able-bodied,” Sam cuts in.

“You did.”

“Is there anything in particular you’d like to see?” Dean asks, impatient. 

“No need, I’ve seen enough. Let me get your payment now so we can complete the transfer.”

Just like that. No inspections. No bargaining.

“Are you aware that Castiel has been in the market for several weeks?” Sam asks. It seems his radar is being pinged as hard as Dean’s. 

“I am,” Miller replies. “But I assure you, his attitude won’t be an issue. As it is, I happen to be a previous owner of his.” He eyes Cas with a conspiratorial air that makes the hairs on the back of Dean’s head stand on end. “We have... an understanding.”

Dean can only think about the dying feathers on Cas’ wings, the way he knelt at Dean’s feet, his silent obedience in Dean’s bed. Stomach acid rises up his throat. There’s no way he can let this man walk away with complete control over Cas. 

“If you were going to buy him back, why did you sell him in the first place?” Sam asks.

“I’m afraid unfortunate circumstances led to our separation,” Miller says. He offers no further details.

Before he can truly think about what he’s doing, Dean is moving toward Cas. “The deal is off.” He places a hand on Cas’ chest to nudge him away from Miller, but pulls away when Cas flinches.

“Off?” Miller parrots, eyebrows raised. 

“No,” Cas says. It’s the first word he’s spoken to Dean in almost twenty-four hours. “You have to do this.” 

Dean stares at him. “What?”

“Complete the transfer.” Cas’ teeth are clenched, the tendons on his neck standing out. 

“What are you saying?”

“Sell me, Dean.”

The words feel like a punch to Dean’s stomach. It doesn’t make any sense, though. Miller has hurt Cas, Dean is sure, and will hurt Cas again. “I’m not letting him take you away.” 

Cas reaches out and grabs a fistful of Dean’s jacket. He doesn’t yank or shove, just holds on tightly enough that the material digs into the sides of Dean’s neck. “Please, Dean. I am begging you.” 

Shame claws at Dean’s insides and it hurts, it hurts so bad. He looks away and his gaze lands on Miller. The man has a smirk on his face, but he’s not looking at Dean; his attention is completely focused on Castiel.

“Let me go with him,” Cas insists.

Dean is lost. His eyes instinctively search his brother’s. Sam is watching him, eyebrows drawn together. When their gazes meet, Sam shakes his head minutely, a tiny gesture meant only for Dean.

Dean knows what he has to do. 

“I’m taking you home, Cas.”

“No!” Cas shouts, eyes wild. “Please, Dean, don’t do this!”

“Excuse me,” Miller cuts in, smirk gone from his face, replaced by a dangerous glint in his sunken eyes. “You can’t just change your mind at the last second.” 

“Watch me,” Dean challenges.

Miller somehow seems to stand taller without really moving, features becoming darker, sharper. “Is this truly how you want to play it?”

“Absolutely.”

Cas lets go of Dean’s jacket and turns toward Sam. “Sam, please, you can’t let him do this.” 

Sam looks between Dean and Cas but doesn’t say anything.

“This is not supposed to happen,” Cas says, almost to himself. He squares his shoulders and when he turns back to Dean there’s a terrifying fire in his eyes, blazing and uncontrolled. “Dean.” Dean’s name on his lips is no longer a plea, it’s a warning. 

Dean has made many mistakes when it comes to Cas, but he won’t make this one. “No.” 

“Let’s go,” Sam says. 

Dean grabs Cas’ arm and directs him toward the car, but Cas won’t move. 

Dean has to do this. It’s for Cas’ own good. He takes a breath deeper than the single word requires and says, “Come.” 

The betrayal on Castiel’s face will haunt his dreams for months, he knows it. 

They start back toward the car when Miller’s voice calls from behind them. “Call me if you change your mind, Dean Winchester.” 

Dean only stops because Sam does. It takes him a moment longer than his brother to register the fact that Sam never posted their full name online.

“You’ll find,” the man adds, words long and deceptively soft, “that I can be a very persuasive man.”

  


***

  


Cas is, as usual, staring out the car window. He looks absolutely devastated, eyes red-rimmed, nostrils flared, lips pressed tight. His chest rises and falls at a quick pace. Dean feels like the worst piece of shit in the entire world. But this is what he has to do, isn’t it?

Both he and Sam think so. It’s not what Cas wants, though. He wants to be owned by Miller rather than by Dean. Do Sam and Dean really know better than Cas himself when it comes to what’s best for him? Dean knows, _knows_ that Miller is bad news, but if Cas would rather belong to him than to Dean, that must mean he thinks Dean is worse. It doesn’t matter that Dean will never again lay a finger on him. Cas doesn’t know that, wouldn’t believe it if Dean told him, either. And Dean has once again shown him that he’s not above making Castiel do something against his will. 

He’s no better than any of Cas’ previous owners. In Cas’ mind, actually, he’s worse.

This is all made even worse by the fact that, yes, perhaps Dean does care about Cas more than the average slave owner cares about their property. But he’s gone and ruined it, ruined everything. Been ruining it from the very moment he agreed to see the angel in Bela’s basement. Touching that transfer sigil feels like the worst mistake he’s made in his entire life, and he’s made _many_.

All the way back to Lebanon, his mind keeps going back to the papers Bela made him sign that night. When he parks Baby in the bunker’s garage, he stays in his seat as Sam and Cas go inside. It takes him a long time to finally open the glove compartment and get the manila folder, and even longer to pull out the papers it contains to find the one with the list.

The last name on Castiel’s ownership history is his own, signed by himself in black ballpoint ink right next to the small cross Bela drew to mark the place where his signature should go. The memory is distorted, like he had watched someone else sign instead of doing it himself, and faint, like it happened a lifetime ago. 

Right above his name is Bela’s. Bela Talbot, signed in calligraphic cursive with thicker, darker lines than his own. Written with a fountain pen, perhaps. And above hers are five more names. Dean recognizes none of them, except the very first one.

Alastair. 

Dean stares at the name until it becomes a blurry smudge of black ink on white paper. Miller—Alastair—is Cas’ first owner. It is possible he has Cas’ blood, the blood that was used for the binding spell. At any rate, it’s a good starting point. 

Cas’ behavior at the warehouse suddenly makes sense. Alastair holds his ticket to freedom, his one chance to finally get rid of that goddamned collar that takes away his free will and gives the reins to someone else. If Dean were faced with the chance to get close to the one thing that could set him free, he too would take it, no matter the price he had to pay. 

Perhaps that is not the only reason why Cas would rather submit to Alastair than to Dean, but at the very least it gives Dean a clear pointer toward the path he has to take. What he did to Cas is unforgivable, and what he plans to do won’t make up for that, but at least it will give Cas the freedom to walk away from Dean without the risk of walking into something worse.

He’s going to find out where Alastair lives, and he’s going to get Cas’ blood.


	19. Chapter 19

It’s funny; this whole thing started with Dean breaking into a house, and it’s going to end the same way.

Back when he and Sam decided to branch out into a new type of family business and began designing custom spells to sell, he never thought he’d end up here. He hunts monsters; he doesn’t free them. Or force them into sexual encounters they don’t want. He doesn’t kid himself that this little quest to release Cas from his bindings will redeem him from the things he’s done to the angel, but continuing to keep him in enslavement is no longer an option. He’s done enough damage as it is, hasn’t he? Way beyond enough. 

Dean tracks Alastair’s phone number to a location that shows up on satellite images as empty land, but is only a five-hour drive away, so he just gets in the car and drives off, deciding not to let Sam in on his plan for now. His little brother will want to tag along and there’s no need to put him in danger.

The site isn’t empty, though. He’s glad he didn’t drive this long just to find Alastair had thrown the phone out his car window in the middle of nowhere. A huge house—mansion, really—stands behind a fence at the end of a path branching off the main road. There doesn’t seem to be anyone around, at least not awake, but at this ungodly hour that’s exactly what Dean has been counting on.

He climbs the fence and in less than sixty seconds he’s picked the two wafer locks and snuck inside. 

He does a quick, silent round to check out the different rooms on the ground floor. The place has a lavish style that is clearly intended to show off its owner’s wealth. There’s two dining rooms, three bathrooms, three sitting rooms (how many rooms do you need just to sit in?), an assortment of other rooms with unclear purpose, and one study. Dean goes straight for the study.

The room is the only one that has any sort of personal feel to it. The floor is covered in a lush carpet and the furniture is ornate and heavy, like in the rest of the house, but the shelves are actually stacked with books, not just generic showpieces or table accents. There’s also a very prominent feature that is thankfully missing anywhere else – a huge, ugly-ass painting of Alastair himself, hanging on the wall behind the desk. The portrait depicts him in a black tux next to a gowned middle-aged woman who is holding a tiny dog, or maybe a rat. Dean would make a gagging face if there were anyone around to see it. The couple is smiling an open, honest smile, and the expression makes Alastair look like a completely different man.

He starts with the desk. Just a bunch of contracts for some kind of publishing agency, a collection of expensive-looking fountain pens (he pockets one for Sam’s next birthday) and the most hideous paperweight anyone has ever laid eyes on, Dean is sure. There are no drawers. 

He turns to look at the painting, not because he wants to inflict this visual torture on himself, but because he’s seen enough Scooby Doo episodes to know it might be there to cover something. He lifts it off the wall and yep, what do you know, there’s a safe behind it. 

Which means he’s screwed. He can’t crack safes. Maybe if Sam were here, he’d give it a go, but his brother is no expert, either. 

The ceiling lamp turns on, flooding the room with a harsh yellow tint. In one movement Dean has his gun out and is pointing it at the door. Alastair is standing at the threshold, unarmed. 

“I know why you’re here,” the man says, “but you’re not going to get it.”

“We’ll see.”

Alastair moves further into the room, circling the desk and forcing Dean to mirror his movements to keep the piece of furniture between them, until Dean blocks the only exit and Alastair is trapped between the desk and the wall. Dean would consider it a tactical error on the man’s part, except Alastair doesn’t seem to mind. He appears relaxed, unconcerned with the threat of Dean’s weapon trained on him.

“I caught him, subjugated him,” Alastair says. “He belongs to me.”

“Not anymore.”

“Technicalities, Dean. No matter who holds his papers, who commands his not-quite-indomitable will, Castiel will always be mine.”

“Only because you have his blood.”

Alastair’s lips stretch slowly into something resembling a smile. It looks nothing like the one on the painting. “Hope is such a traitorous thing, isn’t it?” He turns to the safe, his back to Dean, and fiddles with the combination dial until the door swings open. Inside there is only a thin, rectangular black box. He places it on the desk and pries the latch open. 

The interior of the box is lined with velvet, with ten indentations on the bottom where ten small tubes filled with dark red liquid are nested. Alastair pulls one out, revealing a small feather hidden underneath it. 

Dean swallows thickly. The feather is Castiel’s, he knows it. It looks just like the ones at the base of his wings, on the inside – small and downy, dark and iridescent.

“As long as I have this,” Alastair says, holding the tube of blood up against the light and pretending to examine it, “Castiel will always come back to me. Eating from the palm of my hand, _hoping_ that someday he’ll be able to take this away from me. But he can’t, not bound as he is. Unable to do anything of his own free will. His life and everything in it belong to whoever imprints their essence on the collar. You, now, but soon it will be me once again.” He retrieves the feather and slips both it and the blood into the front pocket of his shirt.

“Nuh-uh,” Dean says, “hand it over.”

“Ah, Dean. You think you can... make me?”

Dean cocks his gun. “Hand it over or I will kill you, Alastair.” 

Alastair simply closes the box and puts it back into the safe. He meets Dean’s eyes again, smirk still thick on his lips. “Why don’t you try?”

Dean’s finger makes the decision before his brain has time to catch up. The shot resonates throughout the empty house, ringing in Dean’s ears. 

Alastair looks down at his pierced chest, then back up at Dean. “Oh, you have it in you, Dean, I’ll give you that.”

_What the...?_

Dean turns around, ready to bolt out of there, but two guards are blocking the exit. They blink, and their eyes turn black. 

Uh-oh.

As soon as Dean realizes what he’s gotten himself into, a fist flies into his jaw. He staggers back, licking the blood blooming on his bottom lip, but before he can find his footing several quick blows to his head make him fall on his ass, dazed. He tries to get up and finds it surprisingly easy, until he realizes he’s actually being hauled up by some kind of invisible force, and then he’s in the air, flying backward with his feet dangling, gaining momentum dizzyingly fast. His back slams against a wall, hard, and all the air is punched out of his lungs. His head is pounding from the impact, something hot trickling down the back of his neck. He gulps, but there is pressure around his throat and he can’t draw a breath. 

“You know, I was hoping to eventually convince you to transfer Castiel back to me without all this hassle,” Alastair says. Between the blows and the lack of air, Dean can barely process the demon’s words. “I wasn’t even in too much of a hurry, so you could have taken your time to set a fair price. I figured you couldn’t be more of a nuisance than Bela Talbot. I’ve waited this long, I can wait a few more days if it means not having to deal with that... woman. Oh, quite the woman she is. But you are one troublesome human, Dean Winchester.” He smooths down his blood-stained shirt and shakes his head in mock disappointment. “All this for nothing, because now I’ll have to deal with her anyway. Once I kill you, Castiel’s ownership will revert back to her. She will ask for far more money than he’s worth, but I don’t really care. She will sell him back to me. And if she refuses, I’ll get rid of her too. I will track down all of Castiel’s owners if I have to, however many there are, until he is mine again. Keeping him was always the plan, despite the few – ah – inconveniences that I’ve stumbled upon.”

The last of Alastair’s unnecessary speech doesn’t even register in Dean’s oxygen-deprived brain. He can barely see or hear anything as his body slowly shuts down. He has enough presence of mind to regret the one decision that irrevocably changed his life to the point of ending it at the hands of a demon. Castiel’s impossibly blue eyes float in the murky darkness of his fading consciousness. Dean never had a chance to apologize to him. Not that it would have made a difference to the angel, but if Dean is being honest with himself—and on one’s deathbed, it doesn’t make sense not to be—it would have made a difference to Dean himself. He has never been good with words, though, and that’s why he came here in the first place. Giving Cas the freedom he deserves, the freedom everyone deserves, was going to be Dean’s way of apologizing. 

He probably should have planned it better. 

He hopes Sam never figures out what happened, never comes here looking for him and finds these demons. He hopes Cas finds a way to steal the blood from Alastair somehow. He wishes he could see that, see Cas finally free. But most of all, what he really wishes he could see right now, is his brother and his angel. Just one last time before death takes him away.

Dean’s eyes are slipping closed, but right before they shut completely, he sees two blurry figures appear in the middle of the room. One is Sam, he’s sure of it. He would recognize him anywhere, blurry or not. He gathers strength he didn’t know he still had and opens his eyes fully, makes them focus. It’s Sam, yes. And right next to him is Castiel, eyes shining brighter than Dean’s ever seen them.

Time slows down. He’s hallucinating. 

Two massive silhouettes darken the wall and ceiling behind Sam and Cas. He can’t see Cas’ wings, but they cast a shadow anyway. 

Is he truly hallucinating? Or was he... praying? Did Cas hear him and fly Sam all the way here just so Dean could say goodbye?

Cas slams an elbow into Alastair’s throat and Alastair falls back into a sprawl. The hold on Dean’s throat loosens and he slides down the wall, gasping. His perception of time goes back to normal and everything speeds up. One of the guards grabs Sam and the other gets Cas. Cas struggles for a moment in the demon’s grasp; he’s strong enough to slip free in a couple of seconds, Dean knows, but Alastair is already in front of him, landing a punch straight on his solar plexus and making him double over in pain until he drops to his knees. Alastair fists a hand into his hair and yanks back, forcing him to look up.

“Look who’s back. My very own angel.” He slides a finger along Cas’ collar in a parody of a caress, and when he blinks, his eyes turn milky white.

Dean gets his feet under him, ready to jump up and fight, but he’s got no chance against three demons. Sam is currently getting his head smashed against the wall, Cas is trapped between Alastair and the other demon, and Dean is to blame for all of it. He prayed to Cas, forced him to come all the way here, with Sam, into this hell hole. He didn’t mean to do it, but that makes no difference. Sam is about to die because of him. Cas will go back to being Alastair’s slave. It could have been just Dean’s life, _should_ have been just Dean’s life, and instead, all three of them are going to pay for his recklessness. 

Cas shifts his gaze toward Dean and in a fraction of a second a look passes between them.

“Say it,” the angel commands him.

Dean sees the realization sink in Alastair’s eyes at the same time as it does in him. With his owner’s order, Cas could access enough of his grace to fight these demons, all three of them. 

Alastair raises his hand in Dean’s direction, but Dean is faster. 

“Kill them!”

It’s instantaneous. Cas sinks some sort of blade into Alastair’s guts—where did he even get it?—and Alastair’s whole being _cracks_ , fizzling with a show of lights that Dean can’t look away from. It’s not even over and Cas is already getting up and twisting into the other demon’s hold. The demon starts smoking out, but Cas _pushes him back in with his freaking hand_ , a blinding flare pouring out of his palm that Dean is forced to close his eyes against. There’s a second flash of light behind Dean’s eyelids, and when he next dares to look, Cas is helping Sam up, and there’s three dead bodies on the floor. Sam is gasping, blood oozing from a gash above his eyebrow, the collar of his flannel stained dark with it. He looks disoriented, but Dean supposes that’s at least partly due to being flown here. Cas, on the other hand, looks completely unaffected, no sign of a struggle on him, not even a drop of sweat. Even the blade is gone.

Cas’ eyes meet Dean’s for a moment, then flick to the exposed safe, and finally settle on Alastair’s sprawled, lifeless body. Not that the body is Alastair’s; he just took it, like he apparently takes anything he wants, and made himself the owner. 

“Cas?” Sam asks.

Dean knows what the angel is thinking. He walks up to Alastair, slips his hand into the guy’s pocket and offers the little tube of blood and the feather to Cas. Cas stares at them with bright, frightened eyes, like they might bite him if he dares to take them. Dean takes his hand and puts the items in it, squeezing until Cas’ fingers close around them.

What Dean should do now is drive them all home, help perform the counter-spell, and say goodbye to Cas, forever. But that’s not what he wants to do. What he wants to do is get in the Impala and drive off to nowhere, alone, then get really, really drunk and hopefully wake up in his bed to realize the entire past few weeks have been a dream. The last part is not really possible, but at least the first part is. He needs time alone; Cas can fly Sam back. It’ll be a couple of hard weeks on his brother’s digestive system, if Dean’s sole experience with angel-flying is anything to go by, but he can handle it.

“I’ll send Sam the counter-spell,” he tells Cas, releasing the angel’s hand to fish the car keys from his own pocket. “Take him home.”

And that is the last time Castiel will have to do what Dean, or anyone, tells him.


	20. Chapter 20

Dean sends Sam the photo of the book page that describes the counter-spell as soon as he gets in the car, then turns the engine on and drives aimlessly, letting Baby take him wherever she wants. Without meaning to, he finds himself back in Lebanon. Home. But he doesn’t want to go to the bunker just yet, so instead he parks outside a small bar he’s never been to before, intending to get thoroughly drunk until he can’t remember why he wanted to drink in the first place. It’s not quite Saturday morning yet, and the atmosphere of the place is as depressing as Dean’s mood. The air is stale, the floor sticky, and most tables are empty except for the corner ones, where Friday night’s rejects sit, too drunk or too creepy to have found someone to take them home. Exactly the kind of company Dean deserves right now.

He sits at the bar and a glass of whisky is immediately put in front of him.

Dean looks up at the bartender, a petite woman with short dark hair and a full-sleeve tattoo. 

“You look like you need it,” she says.

Dean raises the glass in appreciation and downs it in two gulps. She refills it as soon as he sets it back down. 

“Rough night?”

“You could say that,” Dean replies.

“Let me guess. You got into a fight with her abusive ex but she turned you down anyway.”

Dean looks up.

The bartender shrugs. “He beat you up pretty good.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees without thinking, the word just an exhale.

“Time heals all wounds,” she says. She lifts the bottle in front of Dean and shakes it a little. “And some things help speed up the process.”

There’s no speeding up eternity, though. Once Cas is free, he will never want to see Dean again. Maybe he’ll go back to Heaven. Maybe his family will welcome him back like a hero, The Angel Who Escaped Enslavement or some other such pompous title. It’d be rather hypocritical of them, though, after refusing to help Cas when he needed them. It’s none of Dean’s business, but he hopes Cas will stay away from those dicks. Turning your own family away when they are suffering? Not even because of something they did, but because of something that was forced onto them? That’s just... Cas doesn’t need that kind of people in his life. 

But if he turns his family away, does he have anyone else? Dean will always be there for him if Cas needs him, but Cas wants nothing to do with him, and with good reason. Sam is Dean’s brother, so maybe by association he doesn’t really want to spend time with him either, knowing Sam lives with the guy who... who... 

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” the bartender says, refilling his glass once more. “Whatever it is you did, it’s not as bad as you think. She’ll forgive you, eventually.”

“Was I talking out loud?”

“No, but you stink of guilt.”

Dean grimaces. “Thanks. What’s your name?”

“Mae.”

“The thing is, Mae, what I did? That can’t ever be forgiven.”

“Right. Because you’re such a bad boy...” She trails off, tone lilting in prompting.

“Dean,” he supplies.

She looks at him for a moment, assessing. “Dean. It’s been a long night for me, too. Long and boring. My shift will be over soon, thank god, and then it’ll be fifteen hours before I have to come back to this godforsaken joint again. Fifteen full hours, all to myself, to do whatever I want, whatever I like. And the thing is,” her lips spread in a slick, suggestive smile, “I like bad boys. Bad, desperate, guilt-ridden boys.”

“Do you?” Dean says, slipping naturally into the role he’s expected to play. Flirting is easy. He’s done it all his life. He doesn’t have to think, just needs to go with the flow and forget the rest of the world, the rest of himself. 

“Call it a fetish of mine,” she says, elbows on the counter to lean closer to him.

The sound of the swinging employees-only door being hastily pushed open startles them both.

“Sorry I’m late!” A guy barely old enough to drink rushes in, tying his hair in a bun as he goes. He greets Mae with familiarity and takes the black apron she unties from around her waist.

“If you want to meet me outside after you’re done here,” she says, turning back to Dean, “I bet I can cheer you up a little.”

Dean watches her leave and makes up his mind.

  


***

  


She’s standing next to a beat-up red Taurus in the small parking lot behind the bar, her figure blurry in the chilly pre-dawn darkness. He walks up to her and she wastes no time, grabbing him by the jacket and pressing him against the car. It takes him a moment to regain his balance, with four... five... maybe six or seven glasses of whisky in his stomach and no food to absorb it. Mae stands up on tiptoes and plants a wet, messy kiss on his lips, and Dean obligingly leans down and kisses her back. Soon they find a rhythm that works for them both. She’s enthusiastic and favors a hands-on approach that takes Dean from zero to one hundred in no time at all. He puts one hand on her neck and the other on her waist, and without prompting she pulls her shirt out of her waistband so he can slip his fingers under it and touch her warm, soft skin. 

“Get in,” she tells him, reaching behind him to open the back door of her car. 

Dean sheds his jacket and half-sits, half-tumbles inside. Even not-quite-sober as he is, he recognizes her instruction as an order. He realizes he could say no if he wanted, just say ‘I changed my mind’ and walk away. Cas never had that chance.

His train of thought derails for a moment as Mae straddles his thighs and sticks her tongue back in his mouth. It’s nice. It feels good. She grinds her hips against him and Dean’s cock fills until it’s straining against the inside of his zipper. He puts both hands on her ass and encourages her to keep moving. 

Her hands snake between their bodies to undo the buttons of her own shirt, exposing a pair of small, perky breasts under a lacy bra. Dean immediately reaches up to undo the clasp, but his fingers hesitate. 

“You, uh... Can I...?”

“Yeah, just hurry up. I’m not doing this in broad daylight.”

“Taking your clothes off where anyone could see you?”

“Fucking in the parking lot of my workplace.”

Dean had thought that was where this was headed, but he didn’t want to assume anything. Not again. “You want to fuck?”

“No shit, Sherlock.” 

She says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, then dives back to continue the kiss. Is it really obvious, though? Dean had thought what he and Cas did was what they both wanted, too. If for just one second he had suspected Cas wasn’t really into it, he would have stopped immediately. But he didn’t stop. Cas wasn’t into it and Dean, ever selfish when it comes to the angel, didn’t notice. Even worse, he told Cas what to do every step of the way, forcing him to go through with it. 

But why had Cas come into his room in the first place? Sure, Dean’s invitation in the showers hadn’t mentioned anything sexual, but Cas had to know what the situation would eventually lend itself to... right? Then again, had Dean himself known? He can’t really remember, but he thinks sleep was all he had in mind right until the moment he turned on the light to find Cas standing at the foot of his bed.

No, that’s a lie. His thoughts had been anything but platonic for way longer than that. He just never intended to actually act on them. 

And yet he did. When the opportunity presented itself—or rather, when he made it happen—he didn’t even hesitate. 

“Earth to Dean? Earth to Dean?” 

He comes back to himself to find Mae snapping her fingers right in front of his face.

“Sorry,” he says, tilting his head for another kiss. 

Mae pulls back. “Look, dude, when I said I liked guilt-ridden boys, I didn’t mean _this_ guilt-ridden. I’m sorry, but you zoning out like that just isn’t doing it for me.”

“Right.” That’s fair.

Mae sighs and moves to sit beside him, doing her buttons back up. “Honey, you shouldn’t be here. You should be home, getting a shower, sobering up...” she puts her hand on his chest, over his heart “...and texting that girl you can’t stop thinking about.”

“I can’t-- I can’t do that.”

“Just tell her to meet you for coffee. I’m sure she will.”

Her hand on his chest might as well be stabbing him. “That’s exactly the problem.”

  


***

  


Silence greets him when he comes back to the bunker. Castiel is probably long gone by now. Dean is never going to see him again. It’s what Cas wants, and Dean will respect that. Not that he’ll be able to do squat now that Cas is free and can just fly away from him. There’s very little Dean wouldn’t give to take everything back and start anew, but that’s not how the world works. He made his bed, and now he has to lie in it.

He finds Sam in the library, the remnants of the spell still on the table. 

“It’s finally over, huh?” Dean says at the same time that Sam blurts, “It didn’t work.”

“What?”

“Wait...” Sam peers at him more closely. “Are you drunk?”

“What do you mean, it didn’t work?”

Sam gestures vaguely at the table. “The counter-spell. Are you sure you had all the pages?”

Dean swallows. Cas still belongs to him. 

“Dean?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Pretty sure.”

“That’s what I thought. It did seem complete.” Sam sighs and plops down into a chair, rubbing the heel of his hand over his forehead. “Cas thinks it might have something to do with the way the original spell works. He says it’s been long enough that the magic might have fused with his grace, wrapped its roots around it. He can’t really tell. But if that’s the case, it’s no longer a blood spell but a grace spell, and grace spells can’t be broken. At least, not as far as Cas knows.”

Not broken per se, no. But the rest of the pages described a ritual that could work. It comes with a price, a price that might just be too high, but they are at the end of their rope here. No other options except that fourth page he’s got saved on his phone. 

“Where is he?” Dean asks his brother.

“Cas? In his room, I think.”

In his room. In the bunker. Still here in Dean’s home, bound to Dean’s will. Dean thought he would never see him again, never hear his voice or look into his inhumanly blue eyes again, and now he’s being gifted one last chance to do it. “There’s another way to take the collar off. But Cas is not going to like it.”

He runs to room number fifteen, barging in without knocking. Cas starts at the disruption. He’s sitting barefoot on the bed, trenchcoat flaring around him on top of the covers. His eyes are wide and dark, pupils expanded in the dim light. 

He is truly a sight for sore eyes. 

“Sorry,” Dean mumbles. The apology feels like glass coming out of his throat. “Um, there’s-- there’s another way. To get rid of the binding spell. I’ll, uh, I’ll be in the library, with Sam. Come whenever you’re ready.” He steps out of the room and shuts the door without waiting for an answer, then he realizes what he said and opens the door again. “If you want, I mean.”

He’s at the end of the hallway when he hears Cas’ bare feet padding on the floor behind him. Once they reach the library, the silence starts to thicken uncomfortably. Sam is looking between him and Cas, waiting to be clued in on what’s going on, and Dean is shifting his gaze between his brother and pretty much everywhere else except Cas. 

“So, what’s this ‘other way’?” Sam finally asks.

“It’s a ritual,” Dean explains, mentally shaking himself off. “It should release Cas’ grace from the spell even if they’ve fused together.”

“What does the ritual involve?” Sam sounds apprehensive. Dean already told him Cas wasn’t going to like it, though he didn’t say why.

The thing is, the ritual requires Cas to give up his grace. 


	21. Chapter 21

“The first step is a spell,” Dean explains. “The ingredients are pretty standard, I think. We don’t have all of them right now but I didn’t see anything weird on the list. The spell blends the ingredients into a cleansing potion, specifically a potion to cleanse Cas.” He feels like a jerk, talking to Sam like Cas isn’t there, but he just can’t face the angel under his brother’s judging gaze. “We use the potion to paint a stripe on Cas’ neck, if I understood the instructions correctly, and then we... um... we make a c-cut, a shallow cut to, um, excise his grace.” He swears he can feel Cas’ eyes staring a hole into the side of his face. “And as his grace passes through the potion, it gets cleansed. Or something like that. So. What do you think?” 

Sam, whose gaze was flicking between Dean and Cas during Dean’s description of the ritual, turns to look at Cas fully. Used to years of following cues from one another and working in synch, his brother’s action draws Dean’s eyes to the angel, too. 

Cas looks like a deer caught in the headlights. 

“Cas?” Sam prompts. He gets no reaction. He turns back to Dean. “You’ve got a picture of this, like with the counter-spell?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Let me see it.”

Dean opens the file on his phone and hands the device to his brother.

Sam’s eyes dart back and forth on the screen, brow furrowed between them. “It could work,” he eventually declares. 

Dean lets out half the breath he was holding. “Yeah?”

“I mean, it seems promising.” He holds the phone out for Cas, but the angel doesn’t even look at it. “What do you say, Cas? Do you want to give it a try?”

“I-- I...”

Sam waits, but it doesn’t seem like Cas is going to finish that sentence. “What’s wrong? I mean, it can be put back, can’t it? Your grace, I mean. If the ritual cleanses it, then it’s meant to be, like, reused, right?”

Dean never even thought of that. But now that his brother says it, it makes sense.

Castiel nods slowly. His lack of enthusiasm is a little disquieting, considering it’s his imminent freedom they are discussing.

“Cas?” Sam asks again. “Do you think this ritual is dangerous? Is there a chance that it might hurt you? Kill you?”

Cas swallows before replying. “If the cut is shallow enough, the procedure should pose no danger to my life.”

Dean can hear the ‘but’ in there as clearly as if Cas had spoken it. The question blurts out of him unbidden. “Could it damage your grace?”

Cas’ gaze flicks to him for a split second. The single instant of eye contact sends shivers down Dean’s spine. Cas is... terrified. Dean can’t recall ever seeing the angel quite this frightened, not even during the dungeon incident. It takes Cas several tries to answer Dean’s question, mouth opening and closing, voice cracking like it’s physically painful to use it. “I don’t think so,” he finally admits.

Dean had always assumed that once the ritual was done, Cas would lose his grace forever. He didn’t know exactly what that would mean for Cas, but he knew they had to try all other options before even considering this one. If it ever came to this, though, Dean would put the option on the table, as he eventually did. Cas has a right to know, to choose. As much as Dean wants to end his ownership of him, only Cas knows whether losing his grace is a fair price to pay for his freedom. But now it turns out the spell won’t do anything but release him of the magic that binds him into slavery, and yet Cas is still dithering. 

“Cas,” Sam says, hesitant, “do you think it’s worth a shot?”

It takes forever, but eventually Cas nods. 

Sam wastes no time. He grabs pen and paper and sits down at the table, Dean’s phone in front of him with the instructions for the ritual on display. “We have some of this stuff, but not all.” He copies down some of the ingredients, then re-checks the full list. 

“Is that what we need to get?” Dean asks. 

Sam rips the page off the pad. “Yeah. Should be easy.” 

As Dean steps forward to get the list, Cas steps back. Dean ignores it, but he doesn’t miss the way Sam’s eyes catch the angel’s movement. “I’ll call our supplier in Topeka,” Dean says, grabbing the list and his phone, “and ask her if she has these ingredients or at least if she can tell us where to get them. But first – coffee.”

“Good idea,” Sam says, and follows him into the kitchen. 

Castiel doesn’t join them.

  


***

  


For once, things work in their favor, even if it’s just one little thing – their supplier has all the items on the list. Dean pulls the emergency card and convinces her to meet him halfway in Clay Center, and by noon he’s back in the bunker and ready to face the music. 

Cas doesn’t seem so ready, but at least he’s standing there in the library while Sam mixes the ingredients inside a stone basin. His eyes are fixed on Dean’s brother just like Dean’s are on him. He looks like he can barely stand on his feet, pale and—if Dean’s mind isn’t playing tricks on him—shaking, and Dean wants nothing more than to move closer and hold his hand, but he knows his touch isn’t welcome.

The table is laid out with everything they will supposedly need, plus a couple of extras: ingredients in various containers, a mortar, a scalpel, an empty vial, a medkit, a kettle with warm water and a pile of clean towels.

Out of nowhere, Cas sets another item on table. It’s a silver blade, the same one he had at Alastair’s. Or at least, it looks identical. There’s no blood on it.

“Cas?” Sam asks, hands stilling over the basin.

“Your scalpel... it can’t cut into me. It will only cut my vessel. It won’t-- it won’t access my grace.”

“And this one will?” Sam asks, eyeing the blade.

Cas nods. 

Dean’s stomach reacts instinctively to the fear on Cas’ face, making him wish he hadn’t eaten toast with the coffee, or better yet, not had so many glasses of whisky last night. There shouldn’t be any cause for alarm, though. Sure, apparently this blade can hurt Cas—hurt his angelic being—in ways that regular weapons can’t, but Sam’s pulse is as good as a surgeon’s. All Cas has to do is stand still, and Sam will make sure the cut is only as deep as absolutely needed. 

“Okay. That’s, um, important.” Sam is clearly less than thrilled to be making last-minute changes to the ritual, but he rolls with it. He finishes crushing the myrrh and douses a fresh feverfew flower with holy oil, lighting it up with a zippo and adding it, still burning, to the mix. The contents of the basin catch fire in a burst of heat and rust-colored smoke, then fizzle out into dark red ashes. Sam dips a small paintbrush into them and turns to Cas. “Ready?”

He waits patiently, hand poised with the brush, until Cas tips his head back, exposing his neck. Cas flinches imperceptibly when the brush first touches his skin, but keeps still as Sam paints a dusty line over his throat, right above the collar.

Once that’s done, Sam sets the brush on the table and picks up the empty vial and Cas’ silver blade. He holds the vial by Cas’ collarbone with his left hand and touches the tip of the blade to Cas’ throat with his right. “Okay, stay still.”

Cas’ hand shoots up and grabs Sam’s wrist before Sam can make the cut. 

All three of them freeze. 

“Cas...” Dean starts, but he can’t finish. He can’t tell him to let Sam work, because then Cas would _have_ to do it. He can’t tell him it’ll be okay, because something obviously won’t be okay, and Cas won’t tell them what it is. And he can’t tell him it’ll all be over in a few seconds, because... because it will, and that’s what scares Dean the most. 

He doesn’t have to say anything, though. Without prompting, Cas lets go. “I’m sorry,” he says.

“It’s okay,” Sam replies. “Do you want to stop for a moment?”

Cas closes his eyes. “Just do it.”

“Right. Please try not to move.” Slowly, with the precision of a machine, Sam slides the blade over Cas’ throat. The skin parts under the metal and only blood seeps out at first, but soon a dark blue swirl of light joins it, curling between Sam and Cas like it’s dancing to a silent tune. 

And then the magic happens. Under Dean’s gaze, Cas’ grace brightens, transforms, shedding its color to turn lighter, sheerer. It’s almost too bright to look at, but Dean couldn’t turn his eyes away if his life depended on it. That is Cas’ _grace_ he’s looking at. Cas’ very essence.

Squinting, Sam moves the vial until it catches the tip of the wisp, and the rest of it flows into the glass. Once all of it is inside, Sam caps it and takes two large steps back, giving Cas space. Cas’ eyes fly open to follow the vial like they are tethered to it. He doesn’t even seem to notice when all the sigils etched on the collar light up at the same time, then vanish completely as if they’d never been there. The metal cracks open in two and falls to the ground with a clattering sound that echoes under the library’s high ceiling, and still Cas doesn’t move.

“It worked,” Sam breathes out. 

It did. 

It worked. 

Castiel is free. 

_Dean_ is free.

He doesn’t feel free, though. He feels... numb. Waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Sam flips the blade in his hand and offers it handle-first, along with the vial, to Cas. Cas leaps forward and takes them both like Sam might pull them out of his reach is he’s not fast enough.

Sam puts his empty hands up in a gesture of surrender and takes another step back. “Easy, Cas. They are yours.”

It doesn’t seem to put Cas at ease, though. He’s pale as a ghost, breathing hard through parted lips, beads of sweat welling on his hairline. He looks like he’s about to collapse.

Sam grabs a chair and places it behind Cas. “You should sit down. Let us patch you up.”

Cas practically drops into the chair and runs the back of his hand over his throat, smearing the blood that is still oozing from the cut. 

Sam opens the medkit and quickly gets to work. He soaks some cotton in rubbing alcohol and tilts Cas’ chin up. Cas lets him. “This will probably sting,” Sam warns. Cas does flinch a little when the cotton first touches his open wound, but otherwise remains still as Sam cleans and bandages the cut. Dean just stands there playing the part of a houseplant, unable to get past the thought that this is the very last he’ll ever see of Cas.

As Sam works, Cas seems to visibly deflate. Tension seeps out of his body, leaving him limp as a ragdoll. He can barely keep himself upright on the chair. Sam fusses over him a while longer, giving him time to recover.

“So, um... What are you going to do, now that you’re a free angel?” Sam asks once some of Cas’ color has returned to his cheeks, voicing all of Dean’s fears in one single question. 

Cas purses his lips. “I’m not,” he says. And, quieter, “I can’t be.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have to keep my grace contained, as it is now.”

“What? Why?” 

“Enslavement is what I deserve for allowing myself to be captured,” Cas says. He sounds absolutely convinced of that. “This spell that you just performed, it is not the annulment of the original binding that could be performed using the blood that was taken from me. It’s an evasion, a bypass. If the Host finds out that I have escaped punishment in such an unnatural manner, they will hunt me down and imprison me in Heaven.”

So that is the crux of the matter. Cas’ fear, his reluctance to perform the spell even though it would grant him his freedom... the whole picture is suddenly crystal clear in Dean’s mind. Dean had been right – Cas would have to give up his grace in order to be free. It was probably all he could think about since the moment Dean described the ritual to him, though he didn’t say anything, as usual. And it looks like he can never get it back, because his own kin won’t allow it. Jesus. “Some family they are,” Dean says without thinking. It draws the eyes of both Cas and Sam to him. But it _is_ true, isn’t it? That’s not how you treat your family, no matter what mistakes they’ve made.

Sam starts tidying up the medkit. “What will you do, then, if you have to stay... like this?”

“Human?” Cas clarifies.

Human. His grace is not just the source of his powers, it’s _who he is_. Without it, he’s no longer an angel. To regain his freedom, he had to give up his entire self. Hell, he’ll have to go into hiding. He won’t ever be truly free, Dean realizes.

“I don’t know,” Cas finally answers. 

  


***

  


In the end, that’s not the last time Dean sees Cas. Cas stays behind for another full week, essentially preparing himself to go out into the world as a human. Sam teaches him how to find a home to rent, how to use a cellphone, what to write in his résumé to get a job and a bunch of other things, basically Human 101. Dean gets him a fake social security card and driver’s license, buys him a phone and a backpack and procures enough cash to pay for a full month’s rent and deposit – all the tasks that don’t require actual interaction with Cas. 

And then time is finally up. 

Castiel is standing in the middle of the War Room, trenchcoat on, backpack strapped on one shoulder.

“You can come back whenever you want,” Sam tells him. “Seriously, Cas. Whatever you need, just give us a call.”

Dean doesn’t say anything. He knows Cas doesn’t want to see his face ever again.

Castiel leaves and Dean never tells him he’s sorry.

Cas doesn’t call or text, not even for the holidays. 

Dean doesn’t, either.


	22. Chapter 22

Idaho is freaking cold in January. The road is slippery with ice and Dean is forced to drive below the speed limit so he won’t skid off the curves. He’s in no hurry, though. He just ganked a whole family of ghouls, had a shower, a proper dinner, and now it’s him and his Baby on the road for the next fifteen hours – or twenty, in this weather – with Motorhead blasting from the speakers. Sam is still in Iowa helping his girlfriend with a werewolf, so no one is waiting for Dean at home.

It’s dark already. It gets dark so early this time of year. The dashboard tells him he’s got a quarter tank left, but he still has to cross Grand Teton, so maybe he should refill now. Passing Rexford, he sees a sign for a Gas-N-Sip and decides it’s as good a place as any. 

He’s wearing four layers of clothing, but the door of the Impala still feels icy cold against his side when he leans against it while the pump works. The thought of a hot cup of coffee between his hands becomes irresistible. It would also help with the drowsiness that’s been lurking at the edges of his consciousness since he ate those two huge burgers an hour and a half ago – his week-early birthday present to himself, complete with a side order of fries _each_. 

He’s about to head inside the shop when he sees him. 

Behind the register, obsessively re-aligning a stack of newspapers, is Castiel. 

Dean shakes his head, rubs his eyes, but the image before him doesn’t change. It really is Castiel, the former angel that Dean used to own. 

He looks different. It’s not just the lack of that creepy trenchcoat over old sweatpants, or the fact that he apparently learned how to use a comb. His entire posture is changed. More... human. Dean wants to smack himself in the head. Of course Cas looks human. He said it before leaving the bunker – he can’t ever go back to being an angel, or his family will hunt him down.

Dean had thought he wanted to forget Castiel. Erase those entire months from his memory and carry on like none of it ever happened. But now that Cas is here, Dean _yearns_. 

He could go in there and talk to him. It seems like a crappy idea at first, because he will hurt not only Cas, who definitely doesn’t want to see Dean ever again, but also himself, getting one more taste of what he’s lost forever and has absolutely no right to recover.

But the coincidence kinda feels like a sign.

Yes, he knows that’s an excuse. He knows talking to Cas is yet another mistake in the long list of mistakes that comprises his and Cas’ acquaintance. And yet his legs are still taking him toward the shop, closer and closer until he’s inside, mere feet away from Castiel, waiting in line at the counter behind a middle-aged woman.

“Good day, ma’am,” Cas tells her as he hands her a lottery ticket. His voice makes Dean’s stomach vibrate with anticipation. “And good luck!”

The woman leaves and Dean finds himself face to face with his ex-slave. 

Cas stares at him for a long time without blinking once. His face is full of emotion, but it might as well be a blank mask, because Dean can’t read any of it.

“Hello, Dean,” he says eventually. 

Dean can’t breathe. “I never thought I’d see you again,” he blurts out. Jeez. Not creepy at all. “I mean, I was doing a job in Ashton, just passing by. Didn’t know you, um, worked here.” _I’m not stalking you, I swear!_

Cas’ lips tighten. He nods once, slowly. “In that case, what can I help you with?”

Dean’s mind draws a blank. 

“You wish to buy something?” Cas prompts.

Right. “Uh, coffee, please. Large, black.”

Cas turns around and pushes a couple of buttons on the coffee machine behind him. He waits for the cup to fill with his back to Dean, and when the machine stops making noise, it’s a few moments longer before he turns back. “That would be one dollar and eighteen cents,” he says, handing Dean the coffee without meeting his eyes. There’s less intonation in his tone than there was in the whirring of the machine.

“Cas...” Dean had no idea what he wanted to say, but now the words are on his tongue without any conscious thought on his part. “Can we talk for a moment? In private, I mean.”

“I’m working.”

Of course. It was not only presumptuous, but downright aggressive of Dean to ask. Cas doesn’t want to talk to him, much less in private. “Right.” He wants to apologize, but he can’t, not when he still hasn’t apologized for much graver offenses.

“My shift ends in two hours.”

Wait a second – is that a yes? “Cas, you don’t have to do this.”

“I know.”

Their eyes meet. They both know it. Cas doesn’t have to do what Dean tells him anymore. If he is agreeing to do this, it’s because he wants to. 

“Excuse me, are you done?”

Dean jumps at the brusque interruption from the person waiting in line behind him. He pulls a random bill from his wallet and hands it to Cas, muttering a quick, “Keep the change.” He thinks it was a twenty.

  


***

  


Dean re-parks the Impala around the corner so he doesn’t look too stalker-ish waiting right outside the shop, where he will inevitably keep his eyes fixed on Cas the whole time. Despite conscious effort to drink his coffee at a normal pace, he ends up draining the cup in ten scorching gulps, and is now facing—he checks his clock—one hour and fifty-three minutes of caffeine-fueled anxiety until Cas’ shift is over. 

He can’t believe what just happened. He saw Cas again. In the flesh. Heard his voice. Looked into his eyes. It’s everything he’s been aching for, everything he’s been afraid of, ever since that morning when Cas walked out of the bunker to never come back again. Since before that, too. And now the entire universe has aligned itself to give Dean one more chance to apologize. He can’t turn it down. 

Does Cas want to hear his apology, though? He did agree to meet after his shift, and he’s no longer compelled to do it just because Dean tells him to, but does he actually want to talk, or is he just going through the social niceties expected of him, like all humans do? Or, worse, is he afraid of some sort of retaliation from Dean if he says no? 

The thought is almost enough to make Dean start the car and drive away, but the possibility of Cas actually wanting Dean’s apology is the perfect excuse to stay. He doesn’t know what he would want himself, if he were in Cas’ place—he can’t even begin to wrap his mind around the idea—but Cas can act of his own free will now and Dean should trust him to make his own decisions. If he said he’ll talk to Dean, then Dean will accept that, just as he would have accepted it if Cas had said no. 

By the time the two hours are up, he feels like he’s been tapping his fingers on the steering wheel long enough to leave dents on it. It’s freezing outside when he gets out of the car, and the sky is completely overcast, clouds low enough to be visible even in the dark. Dean wraps his jacket tighter around himself and turns the corner. Castiel is standing by the gas pumps, one side bathed in the white light coming from inside the closed shop, the other completely obscured in shadows. He has his trenchcoat on, buttoned close for the first time that Dean has seen, and under the V of its collar the blue Gas-N-Sip uniform vest is visible. 

“I thought you had left,” Cas tells him when Dean walks up to him.

“Parked around the corner,” Dean explains. “So. Where do you want to go?”

“Go?”

“I mean, we could talk here, I guess. But aren’t you a little... underdressed for the weather?”

Cas looks down at himself. “I suppose.”

“Let’s go somewhere warmer, then. Your place?”

Cas’ face tells him it was the wrong thing to say. 

“Or a coffee shop,” Dean quickly backtracks. “What’s open at this hour?”

“I don’t know. I get my coffee from the machine at the shop.”

A gust of wind hits them then, mussing Cas’ hair. They both hunch their shoulders against the cold. Cas drops his chin, protecting his exposed neck, and his skin breaks into goosebumps. In the dark, the sight superimposes with Dean’s memory of the night they first met, Castiel simultaneously standing in his trenchcoat in Idaho and half-naked outside Bela’s house.

“Let’s just get in the car and drive around, see what we can find,” Dean suggests. At Cas’ nod, he leads the way back to the Impala. Cas walks around to the passenger door and looks at him over the roof of the car. Dean doesn’t know if he’s asking for permission or what, but he makes a generic ‘go ahead’ gesture and Cas gets in. Neither of them says a word as Dean starts the engine and gets them on the road. 

They drive past a couple of 24/7 cafés and even a Denny’s, but Cas doesn’t point them out, so Dean pretends not to notice them. He continues driving aimlessly around town instead, knowing this is his chance to say all the things he wants to, all the things he _should_ , but too afraid to get the first two words out. 

Raindrops start hitting the windshield, trickling sideways as the car cuts through the wind. They are on 33rd Street now, driving past the outskirts of town, and the road is darker. The dashboard lights barely outline Cas’ profile. It’s nice. Intimate.

Dean keeps his eyes on the road and takes a deep breath. Without actually having to look at Cas, this should be easier. “I’m sorry,” he finally manages to say.

There’s no reply. He should probably elaborate. 

“I should have called. Asked how you were doing, if you needed anything. I wanted to. It’s just that it’s been crazy since you left, with cases and spell commissions and...” What the hell is he doing? After everything he’s done to Cas, doesn’t he owe him the truth, at the very least?

He slows the car to a stop by the side of the road. Outside, there is only darkness. Inside, the raindrops on the windowpanes shine red and yellow, blinking like tiny little stars, a whole universe to bear witness to Dean’s confession. 

“I didn’t call because I was afraid,” he says, eyes still on the windshield. “I was afraid of what you might say. I was afraid of what you might not say. What I... what I did to you... is unforgivable. And I know that whatever I can say, whatever I can do, won’t take it back. But I _am_ sorry. More than anything, I am sorry. Thank you for giving me the chance to tell you. You didn’t have to do this.”

A thick silence follows his admission, filled only by the sound of rain splashing on the car roof. He’s drowning. He knew his apology wouldn’t fix anything between them, but it still hurts. 

“Let me at least drive you home,” he offers. “Do you live here in Rexford?”

“You gave me back my freedom, Dean.” 

Dean swallows. “Could’ve done that without...” He can’t say it. “Without hurting you.” He wouldn’t have, though. He would have just sold Cas. He can’t wrap his mind around it now. The person he was back then feels like a stranger. 

“I don’t--” Cas catches himself mid-sentence. Dean wonders what he couldn’t bring himself to say. Cas almost never second-guesses his words. “Dean. Thank you. For everything you did for me, despite my disappointing behavior.”

“Cas...”

“You and Sam, both. Please convey him my gratitude as well.”

Dean risks a glance at Cas. He’s looking out the window, face turned away from Dean. “Cas.”

Cas turns to look at him then. His pupils are wide in the dark. His eyes look almost black. “I can’t ask any more of you.”

“You can,” Dean assures him, nodding frantically. “You can ask anything.” 

Cas shakes his head, presses his lips tighter together.

“What do you want, Cas?”

“I just...”

Dean waits, eyebrows raised in prompting.

Cas draws a breath, licks his lips and plunges on. “I wish you didn’t feel the way you do about me.”

Dean is dying. He’s certain of it. 

“I don’t know what it is,” Cas goes on. “If it’s anger or-- or disgust...” He grimaces as if in pain. “Or pity. And I know it’s my fault, for imposing my presence in your bedroom that night--”

“No,” Dean croaks. His voice cracks on the single word. “That’s not... That’s not what I feel.”

Cas frowns. “I’m not good at interpreting emotions from other humans yet.”

Dean wants to kiss him, but he’s not allowed. Never again. 

“You avoided me, after,” Cas says. The last word tilts at the end, almost like a question.

“I couldn’t face you after what I did.” Dean forces his eyes to stay on Cas, to say these things to his face for once. “I knew I couldn’t fix it. I would have done anything. Anything. But I can’t turn back time. I asked you into my bed and f-forced you to do things you didn’t want--”

“I wanted them.”

Dean’s mouth hangs open mid-sentence. Cas must mean something else. Dean is twisting his words into what he wants to hear. “You didn’t. The collar--”

“It did compel me to do what you said, but it was nothing I didn’t want to do. Not that night.”

He sounds so earnest, so sure. Dean wants to believe him. And why shouldn’t he, really? He and Cas are no longer bound as master and slave. Cas doesn’t owe him any courtesies now. Not that he was courteous as a slave, anyway. “You seemed so... I didn’t realize it at the time, of course not, but thinking back, with my mind clearer...”

“I did not mean for my hesitancy to be so obvious. But I assure you, it was not reluctance.”

Dean’s mind is blank. 

“It was all rather new to me,” Cas explains. “I was unsure how to proceed.”

New? “I thought your other owners...”

Cas looks away. “Wanting it was new. I had never been allowed a choice before, but I chose to go to your room that night, and I wanted everything that happened. I... I wanted more, too.”

Dean swallows. “More?”

“Things that didn’t occur to me at the time. And... things that you offered but I wasn’t brave enough to accept.”

Dean remembers. Huge and magnificent, spread out in front of him. Out of reach. “You mean your wings.”

Cas nods. “They are-- _were_ very sensitive. Unwanted touch was uncomfortable at best. Unbearably painful, sometimes, if exacted with enough violence and precision.” Dean cherishes every word like a gift, remembering a time when Cas didn’t trust him enough to share these kinds of things with him. “It is my understanding, however, that the right touch can be very pleasurable. Or so I’ve been told. I don’t really know. I won’t ever know, now.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean whispers.

“It’s not your fault.”

Maybe. Or maybe the original counter-spell would have worked if they had performed it sooner instead of wasting so much time trying to sell Cas to make him somebody else’s problem. The only certain thing is that Cas has lost his wings, his grace, and there’s no telling if he’ll ever be able to get it back. For now, and perhaps forever, he’ll remain... human. It doesn’t change Dean’s feelings, but it must change everything for Cas. Not this, though. Not the ability to feel pleasure. “I don’t know about angel wings,” he says, tentative, “but the human body can work like that, too. The right touch can feel so good you forget to breathe.”

“I know,” Cas says, words ghosting over Dean like a caress. “You showed me that.” 

“Will you let me show you again?”

Cas’ eyes pull him in like gravity. “Show me everything.”

Dean barely has to move for their lips to touch. Cas’ mouth is hot and soft and tastes like home. Dean goes slow, and Cas follows. They have time. In this little universe inside the Impala, sheltered from the rain and the cold and the darkness, they have all the time in the world.

Smoke on the Walter blasts from Dean’s pocket, startling them both. Dean swears under his breath as he fishes his phone out, fingers tangling in the lining of his jacket.

Sam’s name is on the screen.

“I need to take this. Sam is on a hunt.”

“Of course.”

He presses the green button and holds the phone to his ear.

“Sam? You okay?”

“Yeah, we just finished here.”

Dean deflates with a silent sigh.

“Just wanted to check in on you before we get back on the road,” Sam continues. “How’s the ghoul nest going? Need any help?” 

Dean rolls his eyes. “No, and don’t call again till tomorrow, bitch.” He hangs up before his brother can reply. Across the seat, Cas tilts his head at him. Dean feels like the luckiest guy in the world.

  


***

  


The diner is warm. Cas has his trenchcoat open, collar caught on the crooked ‘Steve’ nametag. Dean sits across him and watches him sip on a cup of steaming coffee. A beam of dawn light dances on his hair, giving it golden highlights. 

“This is good,” Cas declares. He keeps the cup cradled between his hands and close to his mouth.

“Better than the coffee from the machine at the Gas-N-Sip,” Dean agrees.

“Much better. Although I prefer the filter kind you and Sam make.”

“You don’t have a drip coffee maker at home?”

Cas’ mouth is hidden by the cup, but Dean sees it in his eyes when his smile falls. “I... don’t own a coffee maker.”

“I could get you one,” Dean says. And then, because he doesn’t want to come across as creepy, adds, “When’s your birthday?”

Cas sets the cup down and stares at it. Dean wants to bang his own head on the table. Birthday? Come on! Are angels even _born_?

“I live at the shop,” Cas says.

“What? Why?”

Cas looks up at him. “Please don’t tell my employer.”

“I-- I won’t, Cas, but... what happened? Don’t you make enough money to pay rent?”

“It’s a recent development. I’m saving up for the deposit on a new place. The owner of the apartment I was living at found out his tenant was sub-renting a room, and apparently that’s against their contract, so I had to leave.”

“The tenant kept your original deposit?”

“It’s the way it works,” Cas says, shrugging.

“No, it’s not.”

Cas stares at him. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

“Jeez, Cas, you don’t need to apologize. Least of all to me.”

“I lost the deposit and now it will take me even longer to gather the money to pay you back.” 

“Pay _me_ back? For what?”

“For... me. You never managed to sell me. I know I’m to blame for that, and yet I can’t regret it considering it ultimately earned me my freedom. I knew Alastair was bound to find me sooner or later, and I did everything in my power to ensure I could stay in one place—with you and Sam in the bunker—until that happened. But by releasing me from the bonds of the spell, you lost all chance to get back the money you were owed.”

Dean’s jaw drops.

Cas looks away and slides a hand between his trenchcoat and his vest, over his heart. When he pulls it back out, there’s a small feather between his fingers. He turns Dean’s hand palm-up and places the feather in it. “Angel feathers are used as ingredients in some spells. They are very rare, and very valuable. Certainly not as valuable as an angel slave, but I hope it will be enough as an advance until I can get the rest of the money.”

Dean shakes his head. It’s his own fault. Through his words and his actions he made Cas think he was worth only as much as people were willing to pay for him. He catches Cas’ eyes and hold his gaze. “Cas. You don’t owe me anything, you understand? Nothing at all.”

After a moment, Cas nods. “I still want you to have it. It’s the only one I have. Do _you_ understand?”

Dean’s throat closes. He pockets Cas’ gift and looks away, pretends to take a sip from his coffee. “Thank you,” he says eventually. Cas doesn’t say anything else.

Their cups are empty by the time Dean finally gathers the courage to ask the really important question. “Cas, are you happy?”

He really wants Cas to say yes. He wants him to be happy. But at the same time, knowing Cas is happy on his own, away from him, would break his heart.

“I miss you,” is Cas’ reply, like he’s reading Dean’s mind. “Sam, too.”

“And the coffee,” Dean jokes, using humor to cover up the effect Cas’ words have on him. It’s the right thing to say, though, because it earns him a small smile from Cas. Dean’s heart lights up.

“That, too,” Cas says. But his smile is short-lived. “I don’t know if I’m happy, Dean. Human life is hard. Lonely. Time passes so slowly. My job as a sales associate has a real dignity to it, but I admit that sometimes I find it rather dull.”

“Not as exciting as being an angel?”

“Not as exciting as being a hunter.”

Oh. “You know, you’re always welcome back at the bunker. You could move your stuff in until you find your own place, too. Or for as long as you want. We could hunt together. With Sam and Eileen sometimes, if you’d like. They go off on their own a lot but--” 

“Move in?”

Shit. Maybe Dean should play it cool, keep his distance a little more. But it feels like he’s got the entire world at his fingertips; all he has to do is reach out just a tiny bit more, and take it. “Do you want to?”

“Not as we were before,” Cas says. It feels like a question, like he’s testing the waters.

“As... roommates,” Dean answers, testing the same waters. “Friends.” He reaches out, places his hand next to Cas’ on the table, their fingers touching. “More than that, if you want. I’ll take whatever you want to give me.”

Cas takes Dean’s hand and links their fingers. “I want to give you a lot, Dean. And I want to share the rest.”

Dean wants to throw himself over the table, grab Cas’ vest and haul him into a kiss, never mind who’s watching. And he’s about to do just that, when Cas lifts their joined hands toward his lips and plants a soft kiss on Dean’s knuckles, never once breaking eye contact. 

It’s enough. It’s more than enough – it’s everything.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~~ three months later ~~~

_The bunker is quiet. Dean pads barefoot across the hallway and into the library. Castiel is standing by the archway, his back to Dean, a backpack strapped on his shoulder._

_“Time is up,” Cas says. The words feel like they are spoken right into Dean’s ear._

_“Please don’t go.”_

_“Time is up,” Cas repeats._

_It is. Dean had hoped this day would never come, but it was unavoidable. “Please,” he insists anyway. He wants to see Cas’ face one last time, but Cas won’t turn around._

_“Goodbye, Dean.”_

“No, Cas...”

“I’m here, Dean. I’m here.”

Dean opens his eyes. It’s too dark to see anything, but he feels Cas dipping the mattress beside him, his hands caressing Dean’s face. No, not caressing. He’s wiping away tears. 

“Sorry,” Dean croaks. He’s parched. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

Cas reaches over him, his weight a comforting blanket over Dean’s chest, and turns on the bedside lamp. They both squint in the sudden light. 

“Let’s get up for a minute,” Cas suggests. “Stretch our legs.”

Dean nods and gets off the bed. Cas follows him and takes the lead by the door, directing them down the hallway. Spring is well underway, but the bunker is always a few degrees colder than the world above ground. The floor tiles feel icy under Dean’s socked feet. Cas’ back is in front of him. Dean’s heartbeat spikes.

Cas leads him to the kitchen instead of the library, though. He fills a glass with water from the tap and wordlessly offers it to Dean, who starts gulping it down before Cas stops him with a hand around his wrist, urging him to drink more slowly.

They stand there for a while, both shivering in the chilly kitchen, Dean sipping and Cas staring. The hum of the refrigerator feels deafening, the fluorescent lights blinding.

“Thanks,” Dean says eventually.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Dean shrugs and leans against the dishwasher, a deliberately nonchalant pose. “You know you can leave whenever you want, right?” His fingers tighten around the glass in his hand.

For several seconds Cas just looks at him, not even blinking. “Do you want me to?” he asks eventually.

“No! No, Cas, I want you here. Forever.”

“That’s what I want, too.” 

It’s not the first time Cas has said he wants to stay, but he’s never explicitly agreed to ‘forever’ before. Dean feels lightheaded. He’s in _so_ deep, and Cas is right there with him. 

He leans forward and captures Cas’ mouth in a kiss, lips slotting together with familiarity. This, right here—this thing between them—is exactly what he wants. And what Cas wants. Forever. Their entire lives, together. Dean doesn’t deserve it, but he’s going to take it anyway. He’s going to take everything Cas is willing to give him.

He sets the glass on the countertop and puts his hand on the back of Cas’ neck to pull him closer. Cas responds by holding onto Dean’s back, palms sliding up and down, venturing lower with each pass. They finally settle on Dean’s ass, kneading the flesh there, fingers sinking in like claws and spreading Dean’s cheeks as they squeeze. 

Cas pulls away from the kiss to run his tongue over Dean’s neck, leaving a wet trail that makes Dean shiver in the cold. He wants to respond, but Cas gives him no respite, sucking and biting under the edge of his t-shirt.

It’s intense. It always is, with Cas. He lights up like wildfire and consumes all of Dean, but when they’re done Dean feels more whole than before, like his very soul has been recharged. Cas gives all of himself, too. Always from the driver’s seat, yes, but that suits Dean just fine; giving himself over to Cas makes him feel free.

Cas’ hands slide under the waistband of Dean’s pajama pants, fingers dipping into Dean’s crack as they grab his ass again. He’s hot as a brand against Dean’s cooler skin. 

“Want to – ah – want to take this somewhere more private?”

“No,” Cas says against Dean’s neck.

“I just-- I wouldn’t want Sam or Eileen walking in--”

“Why not?”

Jesus, Cas is a kinky bastard. Dean has a feeling he’s only glimpsed the very tip of the iceberg so far. “I’m not-- not into that,” he gasps out. To be honest, he’s pretty close to the point where he’ll agree to anything just to keep Cas going.

But Cas takes boundaries very seriously. He peels away from Dean and grabs his wrist, practically dragging him out the kitchen and into their room. He kicks the door closed and pushes Dean against it with his whole body, thrusting their groins together. 

Dean slides his hands up Cas’ hips to grip the hem of Cas’ t-shirt. Cas obligingly leans back and raises his arms to allow Dean to pull the garment off. Dean runs his fingers up Cas’ arms, down his torso. The bedside lamp is still on, tinting Cas golden. His skin is mostly unmarred, except for a thin scar that runs from his collarbone to his shoulder—courtesy of a werewolf Dean managed to pull off of him at the last second—and the scrape on his right elbow that’s still healing from a Wendigo hunt last week. Even without his angelic powers, Cas is incredibly fast and has excellent reflexes that keep saving his and other people’s lives time and again. And now he’s exposed under Dean’s hands, trusting Dean with all of himself, a gift Dean will never tire of receiving, yet never truly believe he deserves.

“You’re thinking too much,” Cas says, and drops to his knees, pulling Dean’s pants down as he goes. Dean’s cock stands eye-level with Cas, and he can’t really think much of anything anymore except what he knows Cas is about to do. 

Cas takes him in hand, pulling him down for a better angle, and wraps his lips around him. He sucks a little, teasing at the slit, then pulls back to swipe his tongue along the entire length, coating him in saliva. He’s practical about it this time; no teasing like he sometimes likes to do, making Dean writhe and sob and beg for release. Dean lifts his t-shirt to get the full unobstructed picture as Cas wraps his lips around him once more and slides down Dean’s cock. It’s a mesmerizing sight, watching himself disappear inside the slippery heat of Cas’ mouth. Cas takes him in as much as he can—which is almost all the way, lips touching his own fingers where they grip Dean’s base—then pulls back and starts up a rhythm at a more comfortable depth. He looks up at Dean through blown pupils, a hint of a smile crinkling the skin around his eyes. His movements speed up, hand sliding up and down in tandem with his mouth, and the sensations start spiraling up quickly under Dean’s skin. Dean’s eyes slide closed as he throws his head back and lets out a moan. The sound is echoed by Cas, and Dean feels the rumbling vibrations deep inside himself.

Far too soon, Dean finds himself hovering on the edge. He puts a hand on the back of Cas’ neck to let him know and looks down just in time to catch Cas moving his free hand away from between his own legs. His mind supplies a vivid image of Cas rubbing himself through his pajama pants and he has to move away _right now_ or this will be over embarrassingly quickly. He slides out of Cas’ mouth with a wet pop. 

“Get on the bed,” Cas says. Even on his knees, his tone is commanding, sending shivers up Dean’s spine.

Dean does as told, pulling his t-shirt and socks off as he goes. He pulls the covers completely back from the bed and lies on his back with his head on the pillow, everything on offer for Cas to pick apart and take whatever he likes.

Cas stands up in one graceful movement and follows him. He straddles him and sits back carefully, trapping Dean’s cock in the crevice between his ass cheeks, a cocoon of cotton, pressure and heat. He slides a hand under the waistband of his pants and takes himself out, shaft exposed and balls caught behind the elastic, then licks three long stripes along the palm of his hand and wraps it around his cock.

“You can watch,” he tells Dean. As if Dean could bring himself to look away from the show that’s about to happen on his very own lap.

Only after Dean nods does Cas start to move. His hand slides up and down at a maddeningly slow pace and with admirable precision. Dean puts his hands on Cas’ thighs. They feel scorching hot through the cloth covering them. 

Cas stops for a moment to lick his hand again. They’ve got lube in the bedside drawer, but he doesn’t reach for it. When he resumes his strokes, it’s with a little less care, a little more urgency. 

“Yeah, Cas, that’s it,” Dean finds himself saying. 

Cas’ eyes flutter closed at the encouragement and he throws his head back. His hips start undulating in time with his hand and Dean gasps at the friction.

“Oh, fuck.” He slides his hands up Cas’ legs to grip his hips, urging Cas to go faster, to grind harder against him. Cas complies, letting out short, breathless gasps that never once make his vocal chords vibrate. 

In this position, the column of Cas’ neck is fully exposed to Dean, tendons pulled tight, shoulders back. His muscles ripple under his glistening skin, and Dean imagines what they must look like from the back. The memory of Cas’ wings pops into his mind at the thought. He’s never seen them fully healed from behind, but he’s seen them from this exact angle, splayed wide above him, just beyond his reach, filling up his entire field of vision, his entire _room_. 

Guilt still chases every thought he has about Cas’ wings, even though Cas keeps dismissing it. He can’t help but think that maybe, if he had set out to retrieve Cas’ blood from Alastair as soon as he left Bela’s house that night in September, Cas wouldn’t have had to sacrifice his grace to regain the freedom that should have never been taken away from him. ‘It’s not like that’, is what Cas tells him every time Dean makes a veiled allusion to it. Dean wants to believe him, to trust him, but he’s not quite there yet. 

“Dean,” Cas says, grounding Dean back to the present. He sounds like he’s been shouting for hours. 

“Cas,” Dean says back.

“I’m close.”

The simple warning has Dean careening toward the edge fast enough to make his head spin. “Yeah. Come on.”

Cas slips his other hand into his pants, the fabric swelling and collapsing with the movement beneath it. Dean imagines him fondling his own balls, pressing a finger or two behind them. He starts thrusting up against Cas, hands tightening around the meat of Cas’ hips to pull him closer even though there’s no more space between them. His cock catches on the fabric of Cas’ pants and the sensation is just on the good side of rough to tip him over the edge. His eyes slip closed as he comes, hips lifting up from the bed and slamming hard into Cas. In the back of his mind he registers Cas leaning in, putting a hand on Dean’s shoulder for support against the force of Dean’s thrust. The new angle takes some of the pressure off Dean’s cock, easing him back down from his orgasm. 

“Fuck...” he breathes out.

“Dean,” Cas breathes into his ear. His eyes are screwed shut and he sounds so strained, so _close_ that Dean feels another aftershock run through him. Cas’ hand is moving furiously between their bodies, the friction creating so much heat that Dean feels like they might catch fire any moment. Cas puts his lips on Dean’s but not in a kiss, just another point of contact as he gasps into Dean’s mouth.

“On me,” Dean murmurs against him. “I want it on me.” He slides his hands around Cas’ hips to squeeze his ass and that’s what does it. Cas growls something that’s not even English and spurts one, two, three jets of searing hot come on Dean’s chest, smearing it all over with each spasm that shakes his body.

He keeps stroking himself through it until Dean can see his shudders are no longer from pleasure but from overstimulation. When he rolls off from Dean, there’s a ghost of a smile on his lips. 

“W’t spo’,” Dean mumbles. He doesn’t have the energy quite yet to pronounce the entire words.

With sluggish movements Cas takes off his pants soaked with Dean’s come, but the damage is already done – there’s a huge wet spot on the linens. Cas rolls over onto his stomach and presses himself against Dean so he doesn’t have to lie on it. Dean shrugs to himself. He’ll change the sheets in the morning. For now he just wipes his chest and softening cock with Cas’ pants and tosses the ruined garment off the bed.

By the time he snuggles closer to Cas, Cas’ eyes are closed. He’s not asleep, though. Enough post-coital confessions that he didn’t intend to be heard have taught him that Cas doesn’t fall asleep immediately after sex, even if it looks like he’s dead to the world. 

“That was fun,” Dean says. It’s a generic phrase, but it’s better than ‘thanks’. He made that mistake once and Cas let him know in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t doing Dean a favor. Dean cringes inwardly at the memory.

“Mmm,” Cas replies. Always so communicative.

“We should go for round two,” Dean jokes. No force on Earth could make him get it up now, not for another hour at least.

“In the morning.”

In the morning sounds good. Dean is already looking forward to waking up. Maybe with Cas’ lips wrapped around him. Then Dean will pull him up and roll them over, Cas writhing under him, seeking more friction. Dean will deny him for a while, of course, but eventually give in because he needs it too. Then he’ll lube up his fingers and push them one by one into Cas’ hole, feeling the muscle yield--

“Go to sleep,” Cas says.

“I’m not saying anything.”

“But you’re _thinking_.” He makes it sound like it’s a bad thing.

“I can’t turn it off.”

“Someday I will find the way to make you.”

Dean doesn’t know what that means but the promise makes him quiver with anticipation. “Anytime.”

The tiny smile is back on Cas’ lips at Dean’s blank check. It’s thrilling, to give Cas permission to do something without knowing what exactly that something is. A million ideas rush through Dean’s mind, things Cas might to do to him that he’s never done before, things Dean wants him to do and things that scare the hell out of him, things he’d let Cas do right away and things they’d need to discuss in a lot of detail before he can decide if he’ll agree to them.

He’s pulled out of his thoughts by Cas’ eyes, now open and fixed on Dean’s, assessing. Dean fidgets under the scrutiny, feeling like all of his kinky ideas are written on his face. He reaches behind him and turns off the lamp. 

“Coward,” Cas says, tone light.

Dean grins, even though Cas can’t see him in the darkness. “Tomorrow, okay?”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

Dean is counting on it.

They lie in silence for a while. By now Cas is probably starting to fall asleep. With the lights off and sated from orgasm, Dean should be too, but his mind just won’t quiet down. His hand is moving in gentle circles over Cas’ back, fingers mapping out the shape of his shoulderblades. The thought won’t leave him alone, like so many times in the past few months.

“I told you, Dean, it’s not like that,” Cas says.

It still throws Dean off that Cas can read him so easily, can tell exactly what Dean is thinking sometimes. “Yeah,” he says, voice barely above a whisper but still loud in the quiet dark. “But... don’t you, like, miss them?”

It takes Cas a while to answer, but Dean has learned by now that Cas likes to measure his words, so he waits. His hand keeps caressing Cas’ back, tracing the bones that were once attached to such magnificent wings, wings that could flutter in and out of sight, that could fly their owner anywhere, that could ruthlessly attack during a fight or gently encase in an embrace.

“There is much that I lost, yes. My wings, most of my abilities, harmonic alignment with all of my father’s creation... the sight of your beautiful soul each time I look at you...” Cas turns on his side, taking Dean’s hand and linking their fingers together. “And yet I consider it a fair price to pay,” he says, squeezing, “for this.” 

There are no words for what Dean wants to say, so he just squeezes back. It seems to be enough for Cas, because he pulls Dean into an embrace and tucks Dean’s head under his chin.

Even though his heart is bursting through his chest, or maybe because of it, Dean sleeps peacefully for the rest of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo. There’s clearly a lot that’s still waiting to be told, both plot-wise and relationship-wise, so I decided to continue the arc in a new fic focusing on a new plot (including Cas getting his grace back, for those of you who are as upset about it as me) and link these stories through a series. You can subscribe to my profile to be automatically notified by AO3 as soon as I start posting the next part, and also if you’re subscribed to this story I’ll likely post a new “chapter” with the announcement. This is all because I can’t create the series yet since don’t have a title for it... titles are So Hard *sigh*
> 
> Thank you for staying till the very end of this first part, and for the wonderful feedback that encouraged me to keep writing. I truly appreciate every single kudos and comment. It’s been a long ride, but for me at least a most enjoyable one. See you soon!


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